Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  Maura found herself in sudden and complete accord with this, even though Ilyrana's death would mean Maura would almost certainly lose Lamruil to the duties of his clan and its crown.

  The thought made her chest ache with a dull, hollow pain, but somehow her sorrow seemed a small thing compared with the evil facing her adopted home. She understood with her whole heart the choice that Lamruil had made, the choice that Ilyrana would almost certainly make. Nor could Maura do otherwise. If she could help Ilyrana, she would do it.

  Wave after wave of sahuagin invaders swarmed the coasts of Evermeet, overwhelming the elven vessels and slipping through to fight the elves hand to hand on the red-stained shores.

  For two days the battle raged. When at last some of the creatures broke past the elven defenders, they roiled inland, taking to the Ardulith river and swimming up into the very heart of Evermeet. Behind them came the scrags, terrible creatures that devoured with grim delight any being that had fallen to the talons and tridents of the fishmen.

  Along the way, villagers and fisherfolk gathered to do battle. Bonfires dotted the shores of the Ardulith, and clouds of oily smoke roiled into the skies as the elven fighters consigned the slain sea trolls to the flames.

  In the waters beyond Evermeet's shore, the Sea elves struggled to hold back the tidal wave of invaders. But they, too, had been taken unawares by the massive, multisided attack. Those Sea elves on patrol fought as best they could, but all others were trapped inside their coral city by a siege force of enormous size. The kraken and the dragon turtle that patrolled the waters fed well, but even they could not hold back the swarms of sea creatures that swept over the elven shores.

  The elven navy, the wonder of the seas, fared somewhat better. In the waters beyond Evermeet's magical shields, elven man-o-wars and swanships battled against a vast fleet of pirate ships. They sent ship after ship into Umberlee's arms. And better still, they cleared a safe way for several vessels that fled for Evermeet, closely-and deceptively-pursued by the pirates.

  "Fools," Kymil Nimesin observed as he watched the fiery battle raging behind his ship.

  Captain Blethis, the human who commanded the flag ship Rightful Place, licked his lips nervously. "That's nearly the last of our fleet, Lord Nimesin. There will soon be but six ships left."

  "That will suffice," the Gold elf said calmly. "The elven ships will go one to various ports, as we agreed. One will go aground on the beaches of Siiluth, and from there our forces will march inland to take and hold Drelagara. The next will sail around to Nimlith, and hold that city. Continuing northward, we will take the Farmeadows. This victory is key, both for food supplies and the horses we will need to ride south and inland. From the east we attack three points: The Thayvians will sail to the northern city of Elion to engage and destroy the drow scum that hold the keep there-certainly, the dark elves' usefulness is ended."

  "From what I've heard of drow, that task might be harder than the telling suggests," Blethis muttered.

  Kymil Nimesin cast an arch look in his direction. "And have you also heard of the red wizard's magic? The two are well matched-in power as well as loathsomeness. Those few vermin who survive the encounter will be easy enough to dispatch. The problem with this invasion," he concluded dryly, "is not so much in the conquering, but in knowing how best to rid ourselves of our allies."

  The captain kept silent, though the elf's words set him to wondering how well he and the other humans would fare once the island was taken.

  "We will accept the surrender of Lightspear Keep at Ruith," the elf continued. "And this ship, as planned, will enter the Leuthilspar bay to take over the court."

  "You make it sound easy," Blethis commented.

  "It has been anything but!" snapped the elf. "All my life, for more than six hundred years, I have been working toward this final attack. I have won and spent a dozen fortunes in funding it, formed alliances that will leave a stench on my soul throughout eternity! You have been told what you need to know. Believe me when I say that our ships will make port in a land that has been ravaged almost beyond repair.

  "Almost, but not quite," Kymil added. "In times past, the People have rebuilt from less than we will leave them. The elves will merely be purified by this crucible, and the gold will rise above the dross at last. Evermeet will be restored in the image of ancient Aryvandaar. And from this place, the elves will once again reach out to expand and conquer."

  It occurred to Blethis that the elf was no longer talking to him. Kymil Nimesin was reciting a litany, reliving the image that had ruled and shaped his centuries of life. Whether or not there was any truth in this vision, or even any sanity, the human could no longer say.

  If Kymil Nimesin could have seen the battle playing out amid the temples of Corellon's Grove, it is possible that he himself would have doubted the sanity of his quest. Not even his blind zeal could excuse the unleashing of Malar's vengeance upon the elven homeland.

  The elf-eater battered through a circle of standing stone, and a score of writhing tentacles reached out to ensnare the cluster of forest elf shaman who chanted spells of warding. As carelessly as a courtesan might pluck at a bunch of grapes, the monster thrust one elf after another into its churning maw. A few of the elves fled into the forest. Most stayed, fighting back with whatever weapons of steel or faith or magic they had at hand.

  From her window in a high tower of Angharradh's temple, the princess Ilyrana gazed in horror at the carnage below. Her memory cast up an image of the last time she had seen this creature-during the terrible destruction of the Synnorian elves of the Moonshae Islands. It had been a day beyond horror, and the worst of it was witnessing the disappearance of a blue-haired elven lad into that ravenous maw. Which of her younger brothers had met this fate, she never knew, nor had she ever been able to learn if the other twin had somehow survived. The failure she had felt then, the utter impotence of a young and untried priestess, washed over her anew.

  A young human female, scarlet-clad and decidedly disheveled, skidded into the room. It took Ilyrana a moment to recognize her as Laeral Elf-friend's daughter.

  The woman propped her fists on her hips and glared at the princess. "The way I see it, you can either fight or flee-but you've got to pick one of those now!"

  "Maura, isn't it?" Ilyrana murmured in her gentle voice.

  "Not for long it isn't, unless you take action." The woman drew her sword and stepped to the door.

  For a moment the elven priestess thought Maura intended to force her to flee. She realized, suddenly, that she did not wish to do so. She would stay and she would fight

  Maura, who was keenly observing the princess's face, nodded with satisfaction. "Do what you must-I will stand guard as long as I am able."

  The elven priestess reached out for the magical threads that bound her to Arvandor. A familiar presence flooded her mind in silent rebuke even as a tendril of warmth and strength stole into her benumbed thoughts. She sank deep into the mystic prayer, opening herself fully to Angharradh, her goddess.

  The mystery that Ilyrana had contemplated her whole life suddenly seemed to have been laid out plainly before her. Angharradh, the goddess that was three and yet one, was not so very different from the other gods of the Seldarine. Nor was she so different from the unique magic that sustained Evermeet. Many, and yet one. Perhaps the magi were not the only elves who could summon a Circle's combined magical strength.

  Ilyrana closed her eyes and sank deeper still into the meditative prayer, until the power of the goddess seemed to flow through her like air, binding her in silver threads to the web. She reached out, seeking the power of the other priest and priestesses. One by one, she reached out to touch the startled minds of desperately praying clerics of Hanali Celanil, Aerdrie, Sehanine Moonbow-all of the goddesses whose essence was mirrored in Angharradh. They were many, yet they became one, even as the goddess herself had been given birth.

  As an awareness of Ilyrana's spell spread through the embattled grove, the priests and prie
stess of all the gods of the Seldarine followed the princess, lending the force of their prayers and their magic to this not-quite-mortal child of Angharradh.

  Ilyrana gathered their combined power, instinctively forming it into a new and terrible goddess form. In response to the collective prayer, a warrior maiden clad in gleaming plate armor rose from the soil of Evermeet. Tall as an ancient oak, she held a spear the size of a ship's mast.

  The warrior stood her ground as the elf-eater thundered toward her, and thrust her spear's point deep into the monster's mouth. With all her strength she pushed the blunt end of the spear down, levering it toward the ground. Then she dug in her heels, and held on.

  The impaling spear thrust deep, abruptly stopping the monster's headlong rush. Although the mighty shaft bent like an arched bow, although the wood shrieked and groaned and crackled from the strain, the warrior did not release her hold. Then, suddenly, she threw herself backward, releasing the spear.

  As the lowered end of the spear sprang straight and high, the creature was thrust violently in the opposite direction. It flipped, landing on its rounded carapace and rocking like an up-ended turtle. Its three massive legs churned the air and its tentacles flailed wildly, but it could not right itself.

  One of the tentacles found and seized the warrior, wrapping around her arm and pulling her close. The magical elf drew a knife and severed the limb, then ripped the clinging length from her arm. Circles of blood welled up on her arm where the tentacle's suction cups had found purchase, but the warrior paid no attention to these wounds.

  The warrior maiden took a gossamer net from her belt and whirled it briefly. It flew over the creature, entangling it in a silvery web of magic. She turned to the tower, nodding toward the watchful elven princess who had given her form and substance. And then she was gone, and the elf-eater with her.

  Gone, too, were many of the clerics, for their spirits had been bound up in the casting. Of all the elves who had raised the warrior goddess from their combined power, only Ilyrana lingered.

  But her spirit, too, had flown. As Maura knelt beside the too-still princess, she noted a pattern of bloody circles upon the flesh of one white arm.

  The woman ran to the window and called for help. The surviving clerics hurried to her aid, but nothing any of the survivors could do had any effect on Ilyrana's deathless slumber.

  At last they somberly prepared to take the princess to Leuthilspar. If anyone would understand this unfathomable blending of the mortal elf with the divine, it would be Queen Amlaruil herself.

  Maura went with them. As she tended the princess, she noted with dread and fascination that other wounds appeared on the elfwoman's silent form. It seemed that somewhere, in some battle that only the gods could witness, Ilyrana was fighting still.

  Book Four

  The Royal Family

  "Duty to clan and family, to people and homeland-this is the truth that guides the life path and heats the fighting blood of the Moonshae Folk. But I've come to learn in these many years of my life that the honor held so dear by my highland kin is but a pale thing compared to that of the elves. 'Tis a truth that makes me humble indeed before these wondrous folk-and, I admit in all candor, more than a wee bit frightened."

  — Excerpt from a letter from Carreigh Macumail, Captain of Mist-Walker, Friend of the People

  15

  The Moonblades

  — 9000 DR

  The claiming of the king-making swords was set for twilight on the eve of the summer solstice-a time of powerful magic. From all over Aber-toril, elven nobles gathered in the forests of Cormanthyr for the ceremony. With them came High Magi, three hundred of them, one for each of the swords.

  When the sun began to sink below its zenith, they all gathered in a broad valley. Ethlando awaited them, standing in a vast circle of swords lying with the hilts turned outward. The magi took their places, as well, standing within the parameters of the swords, near to but not touching the points of the gleaming blades.

  Anticipation hung heavy in the air-even the birds seemed hushed as they listened to Ethlando's magically enhanced voice describe at last the full role of the magic swords.

  "Many years ago, I was given a spell by Corellon Larethian himself," Ethlando began, his voice resonant and sure despite his great age, and flavored with the quaint accent of lost Aryvandaar. "This spell have I taught to these magi. Its magic will give to the swords two things that no other magic weapon possesses: the ability to determine what powers it will possess, and the judgment to chose who is worthy to wield these powers."

  The ancient mage cast a slow, searching glance over the gathered elves. On each face, he saw written confidence, expectation. No one among the assemblage appeared to think himself less than worthy of this honor. Ethlando hoped that not too many would die before they learned otherwise.

  "Each clan has chosen and sent representatives. Many who will claim the swords today come from ancient lines, and they can point with pride to many illustrious ancestors. This is a fine thing, but it is not the measure that the swords will use."

  A few brows furrowed in puzzlement or consternation as the elves contemplated these words. How else would a royal house be chosen, but for the honor of lineage?

  Ethlando took this as a good sign. At least they were thinking.

  "Today, the swords will select their first wielders. In time, they will chose a worthy clan with a proven succession. You see, these are hereditary blades, meant to be passed down to worthy descendants for as long as the line lasts. Claiming a sword will become more difficult as time goes on, for the sword will choose only those who have the potential strength and the character to wield all of the powers of the sword. With each passing generation, the task will grow more difficult."

  "How will we know if the sword has chosen us?"

  Ethlando turned to face the young elf who asked the question. "If you are still alive, you have been deemed worthy."

  The seer let this statement hang for several moments in the silence. "Yes, the swords-the moonblades-will take the life of any who are not worthy. This may seem harsh, but consider how great the power of these weapons will be when ten generations have past! Safeguards must be taken, lest their magic fall into evil hands and evil use. Once a sword is claimed, only the sword's rightful wielder can unsheathe it and live."

  The elves nodded cautiously as they considered the practicalities involved in safeguarding weapons so potentially powerful. None spoke, though, for all were intent upon hearing the seer's words.

  "Any elf can decline the honor of inheritance. There is no compulsion today, nor will there ever be. But know this: those who lay hold of a moonblade also pledge themselves to the service of the People. They do so at great cost.

  "The magic each wielder adds to the sword is that part of the Weave that the elf calls his own. You will serve the sword and the People after your death, and forgo the joys of Arvandor. Yet this is not an eternal sentence," Ethlando added quickly. "When the sword's work is done, it becomes dormant. Its magic flees-and the essence of all its wielders is released to Arvandor."

  The seer paused to let each elf absorb the magnitude of the commitment, then turned to the matter for which they all had gathered.

  "The moonblades will select a royal family through two means. First, the swords will narrow down the field. In a few millenia, only a few worthy clans will still hold blades. These will demonstrate a proven succession of worthy elves. It is possible that a few thousand years hence, some clans might yet have more than one blade in service to the People.

  "Second, the powers with which a particular sword is imbued will determine the clan's worthiness to rule. Some swords will become formidable weapons for highly skilled fighters, others will become like the mage's staffs that hold spellpower. One, or perhaps two or three, will become such a sword as a king might wield."

  Ethlando let the words echo long. "There is one thing I would ask of you. This is not the directive of the gods, but my own request. Do not let
more than two elves from any one clan fail this day. If you so desire, an unclaimed sword may be kept by the clan in trust for some future wielder to use in the service of the People. But understand that those clans who do not succeed today, bear little hope of aspiring to Evermeet's throne.

  "Now is the time to speak, if you have any questions. This is not a choice to be made lightly. No elf will be thought the less of for choosing not to claim a moonblade, now or ever. There are many ways to serve the People. This is but one."

  Predictably enough, there was no sound but the restless shifting of elven feet, no emotion written on the waiting faces but confidence of the outcome-and impatience to begin.

  Ethlando smiled ruefully. "Very well, then. These are the last words you will have of me. When the casting is done, the magi will see to the ceremony of choosing."

  The ancient elf's eyes drifted shut, and he began to sway as he hummed an eerie melody. One by one, the circle of magi took up the weird casting. Before the wondering eyes of the elven throng, Ethlando began to glow with faint blue light. His form grew translucent, shimmering with gathering power. The chanting magi, themselves enchanted, began to add words to their spell, albeit words that no mortal elf had heard or spoken before. Ethlando's form took on height and power as the spell drew magic from the Weave, and wisdom from the gods.

  Finally the spell ended on a single high, ringing note. Ethlando's glowing form burst apart as if he were a crystal shattered by sound. The light that was Ethlando shot out like rays from a cerulean sun. Blue bolts of magic and power flashed to each of the moonblades. The swords were suddenly alive with magic, and glowing with intense blue light.