Evermeet: Island of Elves

 

Elaine Cunningham

 

 

27th day of Eleint, 1367DR

 

To the esteemed scholar, Athol of Candlekeep, does Danilo Thann, his erstwhile and unworthy student, send greetings.

 

My old friend, it is with enormous satisfaction that I take up quill and parchment to begin an endeavor that may, in some small measure, begin to justify the care and effort you once lavished upon my education. I thank you for that, and for your offer of assistance in my new effort.

 

It is my desire to gather some of the tales told by sages and bards, warriors and rulers, and fashion them into something resembling a history of the elven island of Evermeet. Without your aid and introduction, I would not presume to approach the mighty, the famous—and the well-armed. Those who do not know me would surely hesitate to contribute to so ambitious an undertaking. As for those who do know me . . . well, suffice it to say the damage is done. Perhaps the mantel of your fine reputation will enable me to reap credibility where none was sown.

 

What, you may ask, possesses me to set my hand to so daunting a task as this, a history of Evermeet? My reasons are threefold.

 

I believe that the lessons taught by elven history have not yet been learned. Though the wondrous island of Evermeet seems inviolate, is it truly so much different from Illefarn, Keltormir, or Cormanthyr? Once, these great centers of elven culture seemed eternal; now they are merely legend. What then may we expect for Evermeet and the elves who have made the island their home and their hope? I pray that my views hold more pessimism than prophecy; nevertheless, change occurs, often when we are least ready for it. In my short career as a bard, I have observed that facts usually serve only to obscure the truth. Truth, when it can be found at all, is more likely to be heard when it is presented in stories and song.

 

You are also aware of my long fascination with all things elven. You may recall that you enjoyed a brief respite from my lamentable magical pranks whenever your lessons focused upon the fey folk. Shortly after you retired from your post as my tutor, having expressed your desire to regain your peace of mind and regrow your eyebrows and beard—for which loss I heartily apologize (upon my word, that ink was supposed to glow in the dark, not explode when exposed to candlelight!) I took upon myself the study of Elvish. In the years since, I have achieved a level of fluency that will allow me to read any histories, lorebooks, and letters you can send me. Rest assured I will treat them with far greater care than I showed my mother the Lady Cassandra's lorebooks, and that I shall return them to Candlekeep without the bawdy asides and small charcoal sketches that filled the margins of those books—save of course for those that dealt with elven legend and lore. Even then, I recognized and respected the unique magic of such tales.

 

My final reason is the most deeply personal. Through the blessings of the gods (which gods, precisely, remains to be ascertained) I am soon to wed an elf woman of royal blood—and mixed race. Her greatest sorrow, and therefore mine, is that she has been denied her elven heritage. While this history cannot restore her birthright to her, it is the only such gift within my power to give. My lady has little use for anything my wealth can purchase. The things she values cannot be found in the bazaars of Waterdeep, and are, alas, in scant supply elsewhere: honor, courage, tradition. As I undertake this work, I keep ever before me an image of this true daughter of Evermeet, whom I love dearly for her elven ways—and despite them.

 

A contradiction, you think? So would have I, before I came to know Arilyn. My lady is capable of inspiring admiration and exasperation in great and equal measure. I suspect that the story of her ancestors may hold true to this pattern. Yet I will follow the story of Evermeet's elves wheresoever it may lead, as faithfully as lies within my powers. This I swear to you by the Mystery I hold most dear—that the fairest and bravest of these wondrous, frustrating beings could love a man such as I.

 

I remain respectfully yours in the service of truth, story and song,

 

Danilo Thann

 

 

Prelude

 

The Edge of Twilight

 

1371DR

 

 

High above the waters of the Trackless Sea, a silver dragon wheeled, soared, and danced upon the crisp thin air. For many centuries had the dragon lived, and never had she found a pleasure to rival the sheer joy of flight—the rush of the wind and the delightful tingle of ice crystals against her scales.

 

As she soared over a narrow gap in the cloud cover, she noted that she was not the only creature to take flight on this glorious autumn day. Far below, a flock of white-winged seabirds skimmed over the waves. Seabirds?

 

The dragon pulled up, startled. There was no land for many, many miles—how could a flock of such size sustain itself so far out to sea? Curious, she tucked in her wings and went into a stooping dive. Down she hurtled, plunging through the mist and damp of the clouds. Out of habit, the dragon stretched wide her wings just before she broke through the cloud bank, pulling out of the dive and then circling around in the thin mist to slow her momentum. Staying hidden among the clouds was most likely an unnecessary precaution, for even the sharpest-eyed seabird would see the dragon, if he saw her at all, as nothing more than a silver speck. But the dragon was a Guardian; it was her task to see and not be seen.

 

The dragon peered down at the strange flock. At this height she could see that it comprised not birds after all, but ships. A vast fleet of ships, sailing due west—sailing for Evermeet.

 

"I could attack," the dragon whispered longingly, yet she knew she could not. There were far too many ships, for one thing, and her duty in such matters was clear. She wheeled toward the west, her glittering wings thumping as she climbed back up to the cold, dry air above the clouds. There she could fly more swiftly.

 

And fly she must, with all the speed that the magic of dragonflight lent her. The dragon had been Evermeet's guardian for nearly as many years as Queen Amlaruil had been its ruler. During her centuries-long vigil the dragon had seen hundreds of ships attempt the passage to Evermeet. Most lay rotting on the ocean floor. But this flock, this fleet, was an invasion force of devastating strength. The dragon could see no other explanation for so many ships—not even during the height of the elven Retreat did so many ships band together at once. If even a tenth of them managed to get past the island's safeguards, they might do considerable damage to Evermeet's defenders.

 

The dragon sped toward the elven island, her mind reaching out desperately across the miles to search for the mind of her elven partner, so that she might warn him of the approaching danger.

 

Silence. Darkness.

 

There was a moment's disbelief—after all, Shonassir Durothil was a formidable warrior, one of the finest Wind-riders in all Evermeet. Many times had the dragon contacted him, even from so far a distance. If the elf did not answer, it was because he could not. Shonassir was dead; of that, the dragon was grimly certain. She did not wish to contemplate the severity of battle, the manner of foe that could send a warrior such as Shonassir Durothil to Arvandor before his time of consent.

 

The dragon muttered the words of a spell that would speed her flight to the elven homeland. In moments, the cloud mass below her sped by in a white blur. But fast as she was, the dragon had reason to fear that she might already be too late.

 

When Shonassir Durothil died, he had been on Evermeet itself.

 

High above the deck of Rightful Place, unmindful of the dragon sentinel passing swiftly overhead, a young sailor clung to the rail of the crow's nest and peered out over the endless waves.

 

Kaymid No-Beard, his mates called him, for his visage was indeed as smooth as a newly laid egg. But young though he was, this was his third voyage, and he was proud of his place on this vessel, the flagship of a mighty invasion force. Even better, as watchman Kaymid might be the first to catch a glimpse of Evermeet's fabled defenses.

 

This thought sent a tingle of excitement racing down the young sailor's spine. He had no thought of fear, for how could they fail? Kaymid knew a secret, a wonderful and dangerous secret that in his mind spelled certain victory. This adventure would climax in a glorious victory, and then he would claim his share of treasure and elven wenches. The battles that lay ahead would only whet his appetite for both.

 

"Soon," Kaymid murmured eagerly, remembering the tavern-told legends. According to those sailors who had survived such a voyage—which is to say, those who had turned back—the elven defenses began in earnest a fortnight's sail west of Nimbral. This time was nearly up.

 

Kaymid intently scanned the sea, his eyes seizing every detail: the long, flickering shadow that the ship's mast cast over the waves behind them, the leap and splash of a pair of dolphins at play, the sailor asleep on the deck below, his bald head pillowed on a coil of rope. Kaymid would see everything, miss nothing.

 

As if to mock his proud thoughts, an island leaped into view, appearing as suddenly as if it had been pulled from a wizard's bag. Beyond he saw a second island, and then another—there was a vast archipelago of them! And between the islands, jagged rocks thrust out of the sea like the tombstones of a thousand unwary ships.

 

"Danger! Danger, straight ahead!" Kaymid shouted down in a voice made shrill by sudden fear. "Land, rocky shoals!"

 

On the deck below, the captain waved acknowledgment and untied his spyglass from his belt, although more for protocol's sake than from any faith in young Kaymid's enthusiasms. Captain Blethis was the son of a sailor and grandson of a pirate. The sea sang in his blood; it had been his home for nearly all of his forty-odd years. He could read the patterns in the stars and the winds as well as any man alive. No, by his reckoning Rightful Place was hard out to sea and days from any shore. He'd stake his share of elven treasure on that.

 

Blethis raised the glass. He recoiled, blinked, then squinted intently at the image it revealed. Sure enough, there was land ahead, a barrier even more dangerous than young Kaymid's warning suggested. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun set the islands aflame: The patches of sand were the color of pale roses, the rocks a deadly garden of sunset reds and oranges.

 

"A coral reef so far north?" Blethis muttered in disbelief. Spinning on his heel, he roared to his crew to turn hard to the north.

 

"Belay those orders."

 

The words were softly spoken, yet some fey magic carried them to every corner of the ship. The deckhands hesitated at their work, torn between the danger ahead—now visible to them all—and their awe of the speaker.

 

A lithe, slender figure emerged from the hold, draped in a cloak against the chill winds and the sting of the sea spray. "Sail on," he said calmly, addressing the helmsman who stood frozen at the wheel. "There is no need to alter our course."

 

"No need?" Blethis echoed incredulously. "That coral can shear through ships faster than dwarven axes could slice cheese!"

 

"You yourself have pointed out the unlikelihood of such a coral reef in these cold waters," the cloaked figure replied. "It is merely an illusion."

 

The captain raised his glass for another look at the formidable barrier. "Looks solid enough. You're certain it's not?"

 

"Entirely certain. We sail on. Have the bosun relay the message to the other ships."

 

Captain Blethis balked, then shrugged and did as he was told. In doing so he risked all that he had—his position, his share of the plunder, his very life—but he suspected his imperious passenger had as much at stake and more.

 

Although captain of the vessel, Blethis was little more than a hired hand. The ship he commanded belonged to the elf—in fact, as far as Blethis could figure, all the ships in the fleet belonged to him.

 

The elf. It still amazed Blethis that an elf would lead an invasion force against his own kin. Although, come to think of it, men were quick enough to fight amongst themselves. It shouldn't surprise him to learn that elves weren't much different, but it did. There were several elves on this ship, for that matter, and more on several of the others. As far as Blethis could tell, they were all dead set upon overthrowing the ruling queen and taking over the island themselves. Which was fine with Blethis, since these particular elves were willing to share the spoils of war—and the glory of conquest—with their human allies.

 

Provided, of course, that any of them survived the voyage. The captain strode to the bow and watched in silence as the ship closed in on the coral reef. Some of the crew, trusting the evidence of their own eyes over the assurances of the mysterious elf lord, leaped over the rail to take their chances swimming ashore.

 

"Leave them," the elf commanded. "They will understand their folly soon enough, and the other ships will pick them up as they pass through."

 

Blethis nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the swiftly approaching rocks. Instinctively he braced himself for the first grating jolt of contact with the unseen coral shelf, but it did not come. Scarcely breathing, he stood tense and watchful as the helmsman steered the ship in a weaving course between the blood-colored rocks, touching none. Touching nothing. It was a feat of seamanship that Blethis would not have believed possible had he not witnessed it.

 

It was also effort wasted. In moments the first of the islands lay directly before them, a hopelessly rocky shore above which loomed a thick tangle of foliage. They were close enough to smell the thick, earthy scent of the loamy soil and the deep, complex perfume of growing things. A large insect flew soundlessly by. Blethis instinctively swatted and missed.

 

Suddenly a weird, undulating hoot pierced the tense silence, rolling out of the dense forest toward them in chilling waves. The call was quickly echoed by other creatures—large creatures, judging from the sound—whose trumpeting roars seemed thick with hungry anticipation.

 

Blethis shuddered. He'd heard such cries before, long ago, when his ship sailed too near the shores of Chult's jungles. If the elf was wrong, if the ship went aground on this brutal coastline, all of them were deader than day-old mackerel.

 

To the captain's astonishment and utter relief the ship passed through the cove and the rocks, flowing right into the "forest" beyond as easily as it might slice through mist. The colors of the coral formations and the lush green foliage played over the ship and the stunned sailors as they glided through the illusion.

 

Blethis held up one hand and regarded the shifting patterns upon it. He remembered a long-ago moment when as a child he had stood in the base of a rainbow and watched the colors splash over his bare feet. This barrier reef, for all its formidable appearance, was no more substantial than that rainbow.

 

"So much for Evermeet's defenses," he murmured.

 

The elf's only response was a thin smile.

 

"Storm ahead!" sang down the young watchman. "Coming this way, and coming fast!"

 

This time Blethis had no need to raise his glass. The storm swept toward them with preternatural speed. Scant moments after Kaymid sounded the alarm, angry purple clouds filled the sky and hurled lightning bolts at suddenly skittish waves.

 

A whirling cone descended from the clouds. More followed, until a score of them had touched down upon the sea. The water churned wildly as hungry clouds plundered the waves, and the funnels swiftly became darker and more powerful with the force of the swirling waters within. Like a pack of hunting wolves, the waterspouts began to circle the fleet.

 

"Tell me this is another illusion, elf," Blethis implored. "The storm is all too real," the elf said, pulling the folds of his cloak tighter about him. "Sail on."

 

The ship's mate, a burly pirate whose face had taken on a pale, greenish hue that belied his Calishite heritage, lurched over to clutch the captain's arm. "We've had enough, Blethis. All of us. Give the order to turn about!"

 

Blethis read certain mutiny in the pirate's eyes. "Remember the treasure!" he exhorted. The mate, he knew, gambled at cards, dice, gaming cocks, and the gods only knew what else. His luck with all of them was monumentally bad; he owed ruinous amounts to people who spared no means to collect debts owed them. This voyage, Blethis knew, was nothing less than the man's last chance at survival.

 

"Treasure's of little use to a dead man," the mate replied flatly, his words not only an admission of his own predicament, but a deadly threat. He released the captain's arm, drew a curved knife from his sash, and raised it high.

 

As the blade slashed toward the captain's throat, the elf spoke a strange syllable and moved one golden hand in a flickering gesture. Instantly the knife glowed from tip to hilt with fierce red heat. The mate jerked back, his aim spoiled. Then, howling with pain, he dropped the ensorcelled weapon and shook his singed fingers.

 

Blethis drove his fist into the traitorous sailor's face, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of bone. He hit him again, lower this time, with a sweeping upward hook that drove the broken bones of the mate's nose deep into his skull.

 

Instantly dead, the man dropped to the deck. Blethis was tempted to kick him a couple of times for good measure, but the ship was starting to pitch and roll, and he wasn't certain he could do so without falling on his backside.

 

"The storm will not harm us," the elf said, as calmly as if the mutinous confrontation had not occurred. "This is the hand of a goddess, a manifestation of Aerdrie Faenya, Lady of Air and Wind. Elven ships may pass through unharmed."

 

As if to belie these assurances, lightning seared the sky, and a booming crash rumbled over the roar of the gathering winds. Blethis raised his glass in time to see the mast of a distant ship splinter and fall. The oiled sails, which had been dropped at first sign of the approaching storm, were already smoldering. In moments the ship would be a torch. Blethis shot an inquiring glare at the ship's owner.

 

The elf lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "The human-made vessels were useful in bringing us this far—not even the most voracious of Nimbral's pirates would attack a fleet of such size. Some of the humans have fed the hungry creatures of the sea; some ships were given as Umberlee's toll. But we near our goal; it is time to cull the fleet. Most of the human ships will be destroyed long before we reach Evermeet."

 

Blethis clung to the rail and struggled to absorb this callous pronouncement, and the fact that the vast fleet would be cut nearly in half. "But nearly threescore elven ships will remain," the captain persisted, raising his voice to be heard over the gathering tempest. "That's an invasion force! Whether the ships are elven or not, Evermeet's elves will figure out your intent. Suddenly, our chances look about half as good as they did when I signed on!"

 

The elf's oddly cold smile returned. "You are more cunning than you appear, Captain Blethis. But do not concern yourself. Not all ships sail to one port; Rightful Place will be one of three ships docking at Leuthilspar. And I assure you, Queen Amlaruil will receive us."

 

"This fool was not far wrong," Blethis said hotly, nudging the downed first mate with his boot. "And he won't be the last to take up arms to end this trip. If you've got some good news, this is the time to speak."

 

"Listen, then, so you can calm your crew's fears and set your own mind fully to the task ahead," the elf conceded. "One of the elves aboard this ship is Lamruil, youngest son of Queen Amlaruil and the late King Zaor. The only surviving royal offspring, if all has gone as our allies planned, and therefore sole heir to the throne of Evermeet." The elf paused, and a flicker of distaste crossed his golden face. "Though Prince Lamruil himself is not particularly impressive, his presence on this ship gives us tremendous power.

 

"And so," the elf concluded with grim satisfaction, "the queen has little choice but to receive us. Evermeet's future, one way or another, is in the hands of her worthless brat."

 

 

"Your advisors have assembled in the throne room, Your Majesty."

 

Queen Amlaruil nodded, not lifting her gaze from the too-still face of her firstborn daughter. "I shall be along directly," she said in a voice that bore no hint of her weariness or her grief.

 

The courtier bowed deeply and left the queen alone with the fallen princess.

 

Ilyrana—that was the name Amlaruil had given her daughter those many years ago, a name taken from the High Elven word meaning "an opal of rare beauty." Ilyrana had been so lovely as a babe, so like the precious stone for which she was named: milky white hair highlighted with the palest of greens, luminous skin so white that it blushed blue tints, and large grave eyes that could change with light and mood from the color of spring leaves to the deep blue of a summer sea. Ilyrana was lovely still, Amlaruil noted wistfully, even in the deathlike slumber that had claimed her since the battle two nights past.

 

Like most of the Seldarine's clerics, Ilyrana had gone to do battle against the fearful creature unleashed upon the elven island by the evil god Malar, the Beastlord. By battle's end, many priests and priestesses had fallen: Ilyrana was simply gone, although her body remained behind. Amlaruil had not been surprised by this, for there had always been something otherworldly about her oldest child. Knowing Ilyrana's utter dedication to Angharradh, the goddess she served, Amlaruil suspected that her daughter had followed the fight to its ultimate source and was even now standing firm at Angharradh's side. If that were so, then the goddess was well served indeed.

 

And if it were so, then Ilyrana was unlikely to return. Few elves who glimpsed the wonders of Arvandor, even in such dire circumstances, could ever reconcile themselves to the mortal world.

 

Amlaruil whispered a prayer—and a farewell—and then rose from her daughter's bedside. All of Evermeet awaited her. There was little time to spare for her own personal tragedies.

 

The queen swiftly made her way to the throne room. A large assembly awaited her: the surviving members of the Council of Matrons, representatives from each of the noble clans, leaders from among the elven warriors, even a few of the other fey creatures who made Evermeet their home and who fought alongside the elves. As one, they knelt in the presence of the elven queen.

 

As was her custom, Amlaruil bowed deeply to the People she served, then bade them all rise to tend to the matter at hand. She took the throne and called upon Keryth Blackhelm, the Moon-elven warrior who commanded the island's defenses, to give his report.

 

But Keryth was not fated to speak this day.

 

The explosion was sudden, silent—and utterly devastating. There was no thrumming crash, no vibration to set the crystal towers of the city keening in sympathy, not even a tremor to shake the gemstone mosaic floor beneath their feet. Yet there was not an elf in that chamber—not an elf upon all of Evermeet—who did not feel it or who failed to understand what it meant.

 

The Circles had been shattered. Evermeet's unique magic was gone.

 

For nearly five days the battle for the elven homeland had raged. Armies of monsters had arisen from the sea and descended from the skies, human wizards of unspeakable power had challenged the Weave of elven magic, ships bearing mounted warriors had swept in upon the island from every side. Worse, creatures from Below had found a path to the island, had sullied the haven that was Evermeet, and had slain many of the island's best defenders. Although the besieged People were unspeakably weary, they had not grown dispirited.

 

But this blow was surely more than they could bear.

 

Moving as if in a dream, Queen Amlaruil rose from her throne and made her way over to the open window. Below her was laid out a strange tableau: The teeming streets of Leuthilspar, which moments before had been alive with elven warriors rallying in response to yet another threat from the coast, were utterly silent. The elves stood motionless, frozen in a paroxysm of anguish.

 

Amlaruil lifted her eyes toward the north. Far away, in the deepest and most ancient forests of Evermeet, the twin spires of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon had reached to the sky. Now they were gone, and the High Magi of Evermeet with them. Amlaruil allowed herself a moment's grief for the loss of friends she had cherished for centuries.

 

The queen turned to her advisors, who for once were beyond speech. All of them knew what this meant. The only thing that could possibly destroy the Towers was another powerful circle of High Magi. And in these days of diminished power and fading magic, only on Evermeet could such magic be cast. Beset on all sides by invaders, they had nevertheless stood firm. The devastating blow, the only one for which they had not prepared, was this betrayal from within.

 

Finally Zaltarish, the queen's ancient scribe, gave words to the tragedy.

 

"Evermeet is lost, your Majesty," he whispered. "The twilight of the elves has come."

 

 

Book One

 

The Fabric of Legend

 

 

"If ye ask my advice—and ye have—I'd say to give over this task to thine Uncle Khelben. Of the two of ye, he's the more deserving of it. But since ye don't seem the vengeful sort, ye might as well start this tale at the beginning. It seems to me ye can not tell the story of the elven People without speaking of the gods. Indeed, I've known many the elf who'd have ye believe there's little difference between him and them."

 

—excerpt from a letter from Elminster of Shadowdale

 

 

1

 

The Godswars

 

 

Before time began, before the fabled realm known as Faerie began its descent toward twilight, there was Olympus.

 

Home of the gods, Olympus was a vast and wondrous place. Here were limpid seas from whose depths sprang new life—beings who would in time find homes upon the infant worlds awakening beneath a thousand suns. Here lay verdant meadows as whimsically fertile as the minds of the gods who walked upon them, and gardens like vast and glorious sunsets. Here was Arvandor, the forest home of the elven gods.

 

It was to Arvandor that he fled now, wounded and heartsick, and as near to death as ever an elven god had come.

 

He was Corellon Larethian, the leader of the elven pantheon. Lithe and golden was he, and beautiful despite the ravages of battle. Though gravely wounded, he ran with a grace and speed that a mountain cat might envy. But the elf lord's face was taut with frustration, and one hand was clenched around the empty scabbard on his hip.

 

Corellon was a warrior—the father of all elven warriors—and he wanted nothing more than to stand and see the battle through to its conclusion. But his weapon was shattered, and he was bound by honor not to use his godly magic against his foe. There was no choice but retreat, for if Corellon fell—Corellon, the essence of elven strength and magic and beauty—then the destruction of the elven People seemed assured.

 

He took some comfort from the knowledge that for each drop of blood he spilled an elven child would be born. Thus had it been many times before: This was not his first battle with Gruumsh. He suspected that it would not be his last.

 

Since dawn had the battle raged, and now dusk was drawing near. All but deafened by the pounding of his own heart, the elf lord faltered to a stop and looked about for a place where he might take a moment's rest and shelter. Such places were scarce on the Moor, a place of endlessly rolling hills, shallow seas of peat, and a few stubborn trees. One tree huddled nearby—a low, gnarled cypress whose twisted and thinly leaved branches swept down to touch the ground.

 

Corellon ducked into the meager shade and sank down to rest. Even as he did so, his eyes swept the hills and he mapped out plans for a battle that might yet overtake him. He acknowledged that the Moor was not without a certain austere beauty; even so, it was hardly the place for an elven god. Corellon was outside his element, and well he knew it.

 

Olympus knew no finite boundaries, and within it were lands that defined paradise for many, many peoples. This place had been chosen as a courtesy to another god, one with whom Corellon had sought parlay: Gruumsh, the First Power of the orcish gods.

 

Gruumsh was at home in the wild moors, hills, and mountains of a hundred worlds. Although the orc lord could never have defeated his elven counterpart amid the trees of Arvandor, here the advantage was his. The familiar setting had apparently emboldened him. From his first strike, Gruumsh had seemed more confident, more grimly determined, than ever before. He came on still in swift and dogged pursuit of the elven god.

 

Corellon's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of his foe cresting a distant hill. Taller by half than any of the Moor's gnarled trees, Gruumsh was corded with muscle and armored with a gray hide nearly as tough as elven mail. His bearlike snout twitched as he scented the air for the passing of the elf lord, and his iron spear bounced on his shoulder as he strode along. The bestial god bled nearly as profusely as did Corellon, for the battle between them had been long and fierce. The difference between them was that the orc lord still held his weapons, while Corellon's sword lay in scattered shards among the heather.

 

As he watched the orcish god's approach, Corellon understood for the first time the depth of his own folly. He had asked Gruumsh to come to Olympus so that they might discuss an end to the destructive war between Gruumsh's orcs and the elven children of Corellon—a war that was threatening to shred the very fabric of the ancient realm of Faerie. Corellon had invited, and Gruumsh had accepted.

 

Accepted, and then betrayed.

 

The elf lord blamed himself. Although he would have liked to claim that he'd treated Gruumsh as an honorable foe, offering good faith and expecting it in return, he had not been particularly surprised when the orc lord broke truce. In truth, Corellon had been willing to surrender nearly every advantage because it had never occurred to him that he might lose a fight.

 

He was proud, perhaps too proud, as were his elven children. Corellon had reason to know the cunning and battle fury of his orcish adversary, but he had trusted in his superior agility and in Sahandrian, his marvelous sword. Even now he could not fathom how the orcish god had managed to shear through Sahandrian's magic and metal with naught but a rusty, one-handed axe.

 

Treachery, Corellon concluded grimly. There was no other explanation, for Sahandrian was far more than a common sword. It was Corellon's own work—he had lavished untold centuries upon the crafting and enchanting of it. Nor was he the only god who'd had a hand in its creation. Sehanine Moonbow, the elven goddess of moonlight and mysteries, had bound moon magic into the shining blade. Since beauty has a power of its own, Hanali Celanil had made of the sword's hilt a work of art replete with gems and intricate carvings. Upon the blade she had etched runes that portrayed—and perhaps captured—the enduring strength of elven love. His beloved Araushnee, the patron goddess of artisans and the goddess of elven destiny, had woven with her own hands the intricately designed silken sheath that padded Corellon's scabbard and warded him with a web of magic.

 

All of these goddesses had worshipers among the People; it was possible that a high cleric had caught a glimpse of his Mistress's magical essence, and had somehow turned this knowledge against the elf lord.

 

But why? For what purpose would any elf turn against his own gods? This question, a question that Corellon had never before thought or needed to ask, haunted him as he watched twilight purple the sky and Gruumsh draw ever closer.

 

The single moon of Olympus crested the distant hills, an amber orb that paled to silver as it rose. Its light sent a hulking, moon-cast shadow stretching out before the orc lord. Noting this, Gruumsh bared his fangs in a savage grin. The bright moonlight was as much his ally as the open terrain, for it made tracking all the easier.

 

A slight movement on the horizon caught the orc lord's eye. It was little more than a shimmer, rather like the colored lights that danced in the cold northern skies on one of Gruumsh's favorite worlds. But he recognized its source, and grimaced.

 

Sehanine.

 

Gruumsh hated all the elven deities and loathed their not-quite-mortal children, but he reserved a special enmity for this wench. A wisp of a female, pale as moonlight and insipid as a bloodless meal, the goddess Sehanine was nonetheless a potent adversary. This offended Gruumsh. Female orcs were generally smaller and weaker than males, and as a result, they held considerably less power. Orcish young learned the precept: "If Gruumsh had intended females to lead, he would have given them bigger muscles." He certainly wouldn't have equipped them with Sehanine's fey magic, or that subtle mind whose depths no orcish warrior could fathom. Corellon was bad enough, but at least Gruumsh knew what to expect from the elven god: battle—straightforward, bloody, and invigorating. That he could understand and respect.

 

The orc watched with apprehension as the dancing lights coalesced into a slender, feminine form. Like a luminous cloud, Sehanine walked toward him, rapidly taking on substance as she came. Night was her time, and she seemed to draw sustenance and power from the moonlight. In her hands was a shining sword, held point-up before her.

 

Gruumsh knew at once that this was no common weapon, even as gods reckon such things. No, this sword was a living thing. It was as alive—and as troublesome—as any elven world and all the beings that walked upon it, as vast in power as the sun that warmed that world and the skies that cradled it. The stunned orc noted the thousands of tiny stars that swirled within the wondrous blade and sensed the magic that pulsed through it like an ocean's tides.

 

It was Sahandrian, the sword of Corellon, made whole and new!

 

Surprise turned swiftly to rage, and Gruumsh let out a furious bellow that rumbled like thunder over the Moor. The proudest moment of the orc lord's godhood had been shattering that sword, watching the glowing fragments fade and disappear. Somehow, this great triumph had been undone by a scrawny elven wench. The orc's hatred of the moon goddess increased a thousandfold, and he howled out a fearsome oath of vengeance upon her and all creatures elven.

 

But Sehanine walked on, not sparing the furious Gruumsh so much as a glance. She crested the hill on which he stood and began to pass down into the valley, moving within easy range of a spear's toss.

 

The orc lord's brow beetled at this tacit insult. He whipped his spear from his shoulder and hauled it back for the throw.

 

The faint sound must have alerted his target, for Sehanine turned to him at last, an expression of faint disdain on her face. Too fast—impossibly fast—she leveled the elven sword at the orc lord as if it were a wizard's staff. A single pulse of silver light burst from the weapon and engulfed him in a shimmering sphere. Blinded and snarling with rage, Gruumsh fisted his free hand and dug furiously at his eyes in an attempt to banish the stars that swam and spun behind his eyelids.

 

By the time the orc lord's vision returned, the goddess had moved far beyond the range of his spear. She stood beside a gnarled cypress that clung to the top of the hill beyond. To the orc's dismay, Sehanine was not alone—a familiar, golden warrior came eagerly toward her. She knelt to him, Sahandrian held out before her. The lights that whirled within the elven weapon flared and leaped as the rightful owner reclaimed his sword.

 

Gruumsh shook his now-useless spear and fairly danced with rage. "Knave! Coward!" he howled at Corellon Larethian. "Bested in single combat, you hide behind a female's skirts! And what of your oath? You swore that no elven magic would be brought against me, yet you suffer this witch to undo my victory!"

 

"Not so," Sehanine said firmly, her silvery voice floating out over the valley that lay between them. She rose and faced down the angry god. "You have broken the truce, Gruumsh of the Orcs, and thus it will be remembered for all time. Corellon holds to the contract he has made with you and to all the tenets of honorable battle. He was never bested. Destroying his sword was no victory of yours. By an elf was Sahandrian undone, and thus it falls to the Seldarine to restore their own."

 

With these cryptic words, the goddess turned back to Corellon. Her silver eyes swept over him; tears sprang into them as she took note of his many wounds. Sehanine wiped the tears from her cheek and reached out with gentle fingers to touch the god's bleeding face. Instantly the mingled droplets on her hand took on a mystic glow.

 

"Children of the moon and the sun," she whispered. "Behold, my lord, the souls of elves yet unborn. Even battle with a dishonorable foe cannot diminish the magic we share."

 

She started to say more, but the bright moonlight that sustained her suddenly dimmed, and the rising wind chased a welter of black clouds across the moon. Sehanine cast a glance over her shoulder. The orc, as she expected, had kicked into a running charge, seizing what must have seemed to him a moment of elven weakness.

 

The goddess's face hardened. "Kill him, my lord," she whispered fiercely, and touched her fingers to Corellon's scabbard as if in grim benediction. When the dark clouds parted, she was gone.

 

Corellon bit back the words of thanks and tamped down the questions burning within him. Later, he vowed, he would seek out the moon goddess and have from her an explanation concerning the magic she had done, and the elven treachery to which she'd alluded.

 

But for now it was enough just to hold Sahandrian again. The elven god raised his sword high, exulting in the feel of the wondrous weapon in his hand and the prospect of renewed battle. With a ringing shout, he raced down the hillside to meet the orc's charge.

 

They met in the valley below with a thunderous clash. Sparks flew like shooting stars as the elven blade struck the iron haft of the orc lord's spear. Corellon deliberately allowed his blade to glance off the spear; he knew he could not equal or even counter the force of the orc's attack. His advantage was agility. Never once slowing his momentum, the elf ducked beneath the crossed weapons. Metal screeched over metal as his sword slid up the spear's haft with deadly intent.

 

Gruumsh twisted his spear sharply to one side, flinging the oncoming blade wide. He spun, stepping back to move himself beyond the elf's reach. As he turned back toward his foe, Gruumsh brought the blunt end of his spear down, swinging in hard and low at the elf lord's booted feet.

 

Corellon danced nimbly back—exactly as the orc hoped he would. Gruumsh's primary weapon was considerably longer than the elf's: Not even Sahandrian could cut what it could not reach.

 

With a fierce smile, the orc completed the sweeping arc, swinging his weapon up so that the shaft was level, the iron tip aimed at the elf lord's throat. With all his strength he lunged forward, thrusting as he went.

 

Corellon made no attempt to parry the mighty blow. He ducked under the rushing spear, then pivoted back to face his foe, using his speed to lend power to Sahandrian's swing. The sword scored a stinging blow to the orc lord's hip. Gruumsh whirled at the elf, his spear out full length before him. But the elf stepped in close, too close for the sharp tip to find him. His sword darted in and ripped yet another gash in the orc lord's hide before the shaft of the spear smashed into his ribs.

 

The elf rolled with the blow, coming up on his feet and once again lunging in close. But Gruumsh had tossed aside his spear. In one massive hand he held a dagger, in the other, the axe that had somehow destroyed Sahandrian earlier that day.

 

For many moments the foes stood nearly toe to toe, and the clash and shriek of metal upon metal rang out over the watchful Moor. In the hands of the elven god, Sahandrian whirled and thrust and danced, moving so fast that it left ribbons of light in its path. But this time, Corellon's sword held firm, turning aside the orcish god's axe again and again without taking so much as a pit along its gleaming edge.

 

The enjoined shadows of the battling gods grew shorter as the moon rose high in the sky. Gruumsh's breath was coming hard now, and his ears buzzed as if a swarm of angry insects had taken up residence in his skull. The orc was the stronger by far, but try as he might, he could not get past the elf s guard to strike with his full power. Nor was Gruumsh as agile as the elf, and though he had two weapons to Corellon's one, the elven blade slipped through his defenses again and again. His hide was crisscrossed with garish stripes, and the grip of his axe was slippery with his own blood. It began to come to Gruumsh that the battle he'd thought already won, the victory he'd purchased from a traitor's hand, would once again belong to the elven god.

 

As if he, too, sensed the turn of battle, Corellon surged forward, ducking under the orc's lumbering swing to leap, sword leading, at the orc lord's throat.

 

Gruumsh knew at once he had no hope of parrying the elf's attack. Instinctively he ducked and flung his dagger hand up to block the killing thrust. The elven blade bit deep into the orc lord's forearm, sinking between the twin bones—and driving his arm up into his face.

 

Too late, the orc realized that he still clenched his dagger. His own blade stuck him hard, parting the hide on his meager forehead. Gruumsh heard the horrid sound of metal sliding wetly over bone, felt the sudden easing of resistance as the blade slipped down. Then all other sensation vanished in a white-hot explosion of pain.

 

Corellon leaped back, tugging his sword free of the orc's arm before the god's fall could bring him down, too. For a long moment he stood and regarded his fallen adversary. On the battle-sodden ground, the orc lord rolled and tossed in immortal agony, his hands clutching at his eyes—one of which was blinded by the copious flow of blood from the gaping head wound, the other blinded for all time. Other than the ruined eye, most of Gruumsh's wounds would heal—too quickly for Corellon's peace of mind—but there would be no more fighting this night.

 

The elf lord slid Sahandrian back into its scabbard. His fingers touched leather, and a pang of sadness filtered through his elation. Though victory was his, the wondrous padded sheath his Araushnee had woven for him—which he had carried into battle as her token—had been lost during the horrendous fight.

 

"You are forsworn, blinded, and utterly defeated," Corellon said coldly. "Yet I find these things little enough payment for what I have lost this day."

 

The orc dashed blood from his face and squinted at his foe with his one remaining eye. "You don't know the half of it, elf," he growled. "And you can't begin to understand what you've lost—you don't even know the names of your foes! As for defeat, I admit none! Kill me now, if you can, and your own silver whore will bear witness that you struck down a wounded and unarmed foe!"

 

Corellon glanced moonward, and knew that, at least in this much, the orc spoke truth. The goddess of moonlight and mystery would see all and would be compelled by honor to speak of such dishonor before the Seldarine Counsel. Even if Corellon wished to do so, he could not slay the downed orcish god. Nor, by the terms of their agreement, could he banish Gruumsh from Olympus before the orc chose to go.

 

"You spoke of others," the elf lord said, glancing over the silent hills, "but I see no one ready to take up your fallen weapons."

 

The orc smirked. "As long as you're on the open Moor, I need no help from anyone. It's a long walk to Arvandor, elf, and you're swaying on your feet like a sapling in a strong wind. Go if you can—I'll not be far behind you. One eye is more than I need to follow a trail through these hills. If you're still standing when I find you, we will fight again. If not, I will kill you where you lie!"

 

Corellon found that he could not scoff at this grim promise. The heat of his battle fever was fast slipping away, and the weight of his wounds pressed heavily upon him. It was possible that the orc, grievously wounded though he was, could do exactly as he promised. Without another word, Corellon turned once more toward Arvandor.

 

Dense and deep was the forest curtain that surrounded Arvandor. Lost beings could wander in the woodlands beyond its borders for many days, never once passing over the invisible boundary, perhaps never even realizing that their way was barred. Ancient trees shifted to confound the passerby, paths appeared seemingly at random only to disappear into a forest pool or a bed of ferns; brooks suddenly widened into vast yawning chasms; thick tangles of vines suddenly sprouted thorns or simply refused to part. Arvandor was a haven and a fortress.

 

Hidden among the green shadows that surrounded and protected Arvandor, an elven goddess clung to the uppermost branches of a tree and peered out over the woodlands. Her slender black fingers clenched tightly around her handhold, and her beautiful face was taut with foreboding.

 

Three long days had passed since Corellon Larethian, her lover and her lord, had gone to meet with the orcish god. Araushnee awaited the outcome with tense anticipation. She had much at stake. There was no telling what might happen among the Seldarine if Corellon did not return. Although none among the elven gods could truly replace Corellon, many would certainly try.

 

Araushnee's relationship with the Seldarine's leader was unique. Corellon Larethian was all things elven: warrior and poet, mage and bard, even male and female. But since the coming of Araushnee, the deity had settled into a single aspect: that of a Gold elven male. In Araushnee, he had seen his perfect counterpart: female to his male, artist to his warrior, the mysteries of midnight to balance the brightness of day. Though Araushnee was but a minor goddess, Corellon had been utterly enchanted with her beauty and had made her his consort. She had borne him children—twin godlings as darkly beautiful as herself. As the beloved of Corellon, Araushnee held a place of honor among the Seldarine, as well as new powers that the elven god had bestowed upon her. By Corellon's decree, the destiny of the mortal elves who shared her dark beauty was in her keeping. She had learned to enjoy that power, and she feared its loss at least as much as she feared the battle's outcome.

 

Her sharp ears caught a faint sound—the distant hiss and rustle of underbrush trampled underfoot. No elven god would make such a clamor. Araushnee had her answer, at last.

 

The goddess slipped down from her perch on a thread of magic. Her slippers touched the forest floor without a sound, but before she could take a single step toward the victorious orc, her eyes fell upon a most unexpected sight.

 

Corellon.

 

The elf lord was but a few dozen paces away. His progress was slow, and he looked as battered as a trod-upon flower, but still he moved through the woodlands like a breath of wind. Araushnee's gaze dropped to his hip. The sheath she had woven and enchanted was gone, and the sword Sahandrian was whole. An invisible aura clung to the sword—the unmistakable touch of Sehanine's moon magic.

 

Araushnee's crimson eyes flamed at this new evidence of her rival's hand in her personal affairs. Dizzy with rage, the goddess flung out one hand as if to erase Sehanine's handiwork. Magic burst unbidden from her ebony fingertips, spinning out into a vast curtain that blocked the forest in either direction, as far as her eyes could discern.

 

Corellon stopped, clearly puzzled by the glistening barrier that presumed to bar Arvandor to him.

 

Chagrin tore through Araushnee. Surely the god would know whose hand this was. Even as besotted as he was with her, he would certainly see this act as treachery. And even as weakened as he obviously was, he could easily overshadow the magic of a minor goddess. Then where would she be? Damned by a single impulse, all her work undone.

 

Thinking quickly, Araushnee began to weave another sort of web. She stepped out of the shadows into plain sight, her face alight with feigned relief and welcome.

 

Pass through, my love, she said silently, willing her words into Corellon's mind. The web will not hinder you but will bar the orc. Go, and find healing.

 

She felt the answering surge of Corellon's gratitude and love—and was buffeted by a nearly overwhelming wave of exhaustion. As if he sensed this, Corellon quickly withdrew his painful touch. The elven god slipped through Araushnee's net as easily as a falcon pierces a cloud. He kissed his fingers to her in a salute, then disappeared into the forest to seek the trees of Arvandor.

 

Araushnee stayed where she was. Distasteful though the prospect might be, she had to speak with Gruumsh, for she had questions that only the orc could answer.

 

She did not have long to wait. Gruumsh apparently had caught an elven scent—whether hers or Corellon's she did not know or care—and he came crashing wildly through the forest toward her.

 

Toward the web.

 

The orc blundered right into it. Flailing wildly, he roared and cursed and accomplished nothing but getting himself hopelessly entangled. From the forest beyond, Corellon's laughter floated back toward him like golden bells—beautiful even in mockery.

 

The orc lord's struggles redoubled, but he was well and truly stopped. Of course, Araushnee mused with a wry smile, the natural defenses of Arvandor would have accomplished that with or without her "intervention." Apparently that thought had not occurred to Corellon. He was too much entangled in Araushnee's charms to see any tapestry but that of her own weaving.

 

"Fool," she hissed as she regarded one captive and contemplated the other. And as she spoke the epithet, Araushnee wondered whether orc or elf deserved it better.

 

 

2

 

Master of the Hunt

 

 

It was no simple undertaking to slip away from the plane of the gods, to take on avatar form and to seek a godly ally in the unfamiliar forests of a mortal world. Not easy, but then, nothing about the task to which Araushnee had set her hand would come without price.

 

The elven goddess slipped silently through the forest, following unseen threads of magic to a place of unusual power. The Weave was strong on this world. It was a singularly beautiful place, with its single vast expanse of land set like polished jade upon a sea of lapis blue. Dragons roamed the forests and ruled the skies, but other magical races were drawn to this land as bees to clover. New races were rising, as well, increasing their numbers rapidly. Even gods saw promise in the burgeoning world—of late, there had been a veritable migration of powers both great and minor. Araushnee hoped to find an ally among these gods, one powerful enough—and malleable enough—to replace the recalcitrant Gruumsh.

 

After his battle with Corellon Larethian—not to mention the adventure's ignominious end as a orcish fly in the web of an elven goddess—Gruumsh had adamantly refused to have anything more to do with Araushnee and her ambitions. She was an elf and therefore his immortal enemy, and there the matter lay.

 

So be it. Araushnee was just as happy to rid her nose of the orc god's stench. There were other beings who could be tricked, cajoled, or seduced into doing her bidding. So she focused on the lines of magic, following them into the very heart of the land. In time they converged into a dense net over a certain ancient wood.

 

It was a forest as dense and deep as any in Arvandor, and nearly as fey. Enormous treants, almost indistinguishable from the venerable trees around them, observed the goddess's passage with the apparent disinterest common to long-lived beings who measure such events against the passage of eons. Small graces of unicorns scattered and fled before her like startled, silvery deer. Darting pinpricks of light suggested the presence of sprites or faerie dragons—or perhaps the more malevolent but still intriguing creatures known as will o'wisps. But for all the forest's wonders, there was ample evidence of danger: the distant roar of a hunting dragon, a feather fallen from the wings of a molting griffin, trail signs that spoke of manticores, footprints of a passing orcish war band.

 

It was the last of these that interested Araushnee most, for on every world that she knew, orcs were the bitter enemies of all elves. Surely this tribe's god, whoever he or she might be, would listen with interest to her proposal—provided that she, an elven goddess, could gain the ear of such a god.

 

While the morning was still young, Araushnee's sharp ears caught the sounds of battle away to the north, where mountain peaks rose far above the tree line to disappear into gathering clouds. As she drew near, she made out the sounds of orcish voices raised in war cries. But there was none of the clash and clamor of weapons that signaled the usual manner of warfare among Gruumsh's children. Indeed, the battle seemed to be coming from the mountains far above the orcs, and it sounded more like a contest between two preternaturally strong bears than any orcish duel. The titanic fighters were lost in the dark clouds, but their roars resounded like thunder, and their clashing shook the very ground beneath Araushnee's feet.

 

The goddess noticed the orcs gathered at the foot of the mountain, dancing and howling and hooting in what appeared to be a religious frenzy. She wondered if the stupid creatures carried on so whenever thunderstorms gathered over the mountain. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that this particular manifestation truly came from the hands of the gods. From what Araushnee knew of orcs, she doubted they could tell the difference between the two phenomena.

 

The goddess moved swiftly up the mountain, silent and invisible, aided in no small part by the things she had taken from her daughter's chamber. Young Eilistraee, known among the Seldarine as the Dark Maiden, was already an acclaimed huntress. Araushnee favored flowing gowns and delicate slippers, but these were not suited to her present task or to the wild terrain of this word's heartland. And so, clad in leathers of deep brown, shod in boots that seemed to absorb sound, and wrapped in a dappled green cloak that shifted its colors to match the foliage around it, Araushnee crept up to the battleground. It is doubtful that the combatants would have noted her approach regardless of these precautions, so furious was their battle.

 

She was too late to see the fighting itself, but she nodded with approval as she gazed upon the victor.

 

Malar, the Great Hunter, stood over the rapidly fading body of a creature much like himself. Well over twelve feet tall he was, with fur like that of a black bear covering a powerful, thick-muscled body shaped roughly like that of an orcish warrior. Malar lacked prominent fangs to seize and rend his opponents; in fact, he had no snout at all, merely a flesh-draped cavity in the center of his face that served as both nose and mouth. He did not seem to suffer from this lack. From his massive head sprouted a rack of antlers, each point dagger-sharp. The curving claws on his hands were each fully the size of Araushnee's hand. Yet victory had not come easily to Malar: His huge chest rose and fell like waves on a frenzied sea, and the breath that rasped through his oral cavity was harsh and labored.

 

Araushnee took her daughter's bow from her shoulder and fitted to it one of Eilistraee's enchanted arrows. She sighted down her target and readied the weapon. Although she fully intended to make a deal with the god, she knew the value of negotiating from a position of apparent strength.

 

"Hail, Beastlord, Master of the Hunt!" Araushnee called out to him.

 

Malar whirled toward the musical sound of an elven voice and dropped into battle stance: knees bent and muscles bunched in preparation for a quick spring, arms spread in a parody of an embrace, claws hooked into terrible rending weapons. His eyes narrowed into malevolent slits as he regarded the armed goddess.

 

"What do you here, elf?" he growled out in a thunderous rumble. "This place is none of yours!"

 

"No, it is yours by right of conquest," the goddess agreed, nodding toward the fallen god. By now, little remained of the bestial avatar but a dim gray outline. "That was Herne, was it not? I have caught glimpses of him before, on other worlds. A pale copy of Malar, to my thinking."

 

The Beastlord's arms dropped just a bit. He was obviously wary of the elf but willing to hear more of her flattery. "This orc tribe now follows me," he boasted.

 

"As they should," Araushnee said, carefully hiding her elation. This Malar was precisely what she needed! An ambitious minor god, almost pitifully eager to expand his influence and power. And most important, a hunter.

 

She nodded to the shadowy remains of Herne and sighed. "All the same, it is a waste. Not that Herne should fall—never that," she added hastily when a growl started deep in Malar's throat. "A shame only that a hunter as mighty as the Beastlord should waste his talent on easy quarry."

 

When the god did not seem to take offense, Araushnee lowered her bow just a bit and took a cautious step closer. "I have an offer for you, great Malar, an opportunity such as might never come again to a hunter."

 

"There is much game in these forests," the Beastlord observed, watching her closely.

 

"Ah, but is there any challenge that could compare to tracking an elven god through his own sacred forest? That is a challenge only the greatest of hunters would dare take up."

 

Malar seemed to ponder this, his red eyes glowing intently. "An elven forest, you say? A wise hunter does not lay aside his knife and then walk into the embrace of a bear."

 

"A wounded bear," she stressed.

 

"That is even worse."

 

"As to that, look, and then judge for yourself," Araushnee said. With a quick gesture of one ebony hand, the goddess conjured a shining, multicolored orb and bade the Beastlord look within. Inside the globe was a tiny image of Corellon Larethian, looking (but for his size) as real as if he stood before them. It was clear that the elven god was gravely wounded; the golden light had drained from his skin, leaving him gray and haggard. His steps wove a slow, unsteady path through the trees.

 

The Beastlord studied the elven god, estimating his size against a stand of golden ferns. "He is small," Malar allowed.

 

"And weak! See his bandages, already wet and crimson."

 

The hunter squinted into the orb. "Strange. So much blood, but he leaves no trail."

 

"You expected anything less of an elven god?" Araushnee retorted. "Even so, surely Malar, the Master of the Hunt, can track him down. Think on it—what renown will be yours when you slay the head of the elven pantheon!"

 

Malar whuffled thoughtfully. "This forest you show me is elven. Never have I hunted so close to Arvandor."

 

"What wild place is not your rightful hunting ground?" she wheedled, sensing that the god was sorely tempted. The goddess gestured at the globe. In response, it grew in size until it nearly filled the battle-trampled clearing. "This is a gate to Olympus, great Malar. All you need do is step through."

 

The Beastlord eyed with great interest the scene within the globe, but he was still not convinced. "You are elven. What has this elf lord done that you want him dead?"

 

Araushnee thought she knew what answer might best please Malar. "He is weak," she said stoutly. "That offends me."

 

"If he is so weak, then kill him yourself."

 

The goddess shrugged. "I would, except that the other gods of the Seldarine love Corellon. They would not accept as their ruler anyone who killed him. And I wish to rule."

 

"Strange, these elven gods," mused Malar. "It is ever the way of nature that the strongest should rule. Anyone able to kill this god deserves to supplant him. If elves think otherwise, they are weak indeed."

 

"Not all think so," Araushnee corrected him.

 

The hunter's crimson eyes met hers, taking her measure. "Perhaps I should kill Corellon Larethian, and you, too, and then take my own chances among your pantheon!"

 

Araushnee laughed scornfully. "One wounded elven god you could surely slay, but all at once? No, content yourself with the trophy you see before you. Corellon is a far greater prize than any you have won this day."

 

Malar nodded toward the foot of the mountain, where the orcs' celebration had reached what sounded like a death-dealing frenzy. "A god needs worshipers."

 

"And so you shall have them," said Araushnee, certain that she knew at last what bait would lure Malar into her web. "The orcs value strength: That tribe will follow you because you defeated their god. How many more orcs will join their ranks when they learn that you have succeeded where Gruumsh One-Eye could not?"

 

"That elf blinded Gruumsh?" the Beastlord asked, caution creeping into his voice as he regarded the image of Corellon with new respect. Malar knew all too well that Gruumsh, the First Power of the orcs, was a force with which to reckon.

 

"Yet another sign of Corellon's weakness," Araushnee said hastily. "He should have slain the orc when he had the chance. I would have. Or, at the very least, I would have gelded him!"

 

A low chuckle grated from the hunter. "It is not my way to humiliate my quarry, but to destroy it. Your ways are not mine, elf, yet I cannot deny the appeal in the picture you paint. A gelded Gruumsh! I am not a subtle god, but there is irony even I can appreciate!"

 

Araushnee seized upon the moment of grim camaraderie. "Then go, destroy, and claim your trophy. And when it is done, you will have what you most desire," she said in a voice that was all silk and temptation.

 

"Which is?"

 

"Quarry—quarry that will tempt the finest hunters of this world and win you many new followers. Elves," she said, spelling it out at last. "When I rule in Arvandor, I will send tribes of elves to this world. Orcs will hunt them, and in doing so they will follow Malar, the greatest elf-hunter of all."

 

"Elves!" Malar snorted. "There are elves here already. The Weave is strong: Where there is magic, there are always elves."

 

The goddess quickly covered her surprise. She had not sensed the presence of elven people upon this world, something that any member of the Seldarine could easily do. Perhaps she had been too absorbed in her quest to be attuned to their presence.

 

"But the elves here are few and of no real power," she said, hoping that this was indeed the case. "I will send entire clans. Elves who will build cities and craft weapons of magic. Your primitive orcs will rally to you in hope of seizing such prizes. You will become a great power—the god of all those people who hate and hunt Corellon's children!"

 

At last the Beastlord nodded. "I go," he said simply, and then he leaped into the shining globe.

 

The vision that Araushnee had conjured dissipated with a faint crackle. When it was gone, so was the Master of the Hunt.

 

A triumphant chuckle started in Araushnee's throat. Her laughter deepened to shake her flat belly and grew in power as it rolled out in peal after peal over the mountains. On and on it went, growing higher and more uncanny until it seemed to meld with the shrieking of the wind.

 

And in the valley below, the fierce orcs paused their orgy of slaughter and celebration to listen to the ungodly sound. For the first time that day, they knew true fear.

 

The long night of battle was a memory now, and the morning sunlight that filtered through the forest canopy brought warmth and strength to the wearied elf lord. Corellon was almost home—he could sense the change in the air, feel the power in the ground beneath his feat. Already he could feel the magic of Arvandor flowing through him. He picked up his pace; the battle with Gruumsh was over, but it had raised many questions that demanded resolution.

 

A low, bestial growl came from a cluster of scarlet sumac bushes behind him. Corellon stiffened, doubly startled. He'd heard no animal's approach, and he knew no animal in the forest as enemy. He turned cautiously to the sound, hand on the hilt of his sword, just as the foliage seemed to explode from the force of a running charge.

 

A monstrous, fur-clad being leaped at him, arms out wide and claws curved into grasping hooks. Corellon struck out, slicing across one of the creature's leathery palms. Before the bestial thing could react, the elf had skipped well away.

 

"Malar!" he called out sternly, for he knew of the Beastlord—albeit, nothing good. "How do you dare to hunt in an elven forest?"

 

"I hunt wherever I want," the god growled, "and whomever I want."

 

So saying, Malar lowered his head and came at the elf lord like a charging stag. As he came, antlers sprang from his head, each instantly branching out into a score of lethal, bladelike tips.

 

Corellon stood his ground. Holding his sword firmly with both hands, he thrust up into the rack of antlers. Instantly he twisted so that his back was to Malar, then he bent quickly forward, heaving his entangled sword forward and down with all his strength.

 

The incredible speed of the elf's maneuver, combined with the momentum of Malar's charge, sent the Beastlord hurtling up and over the much smaller elf. He landed on his back, hard enough to bounce and even skid forward a pace or two. Corellon nimbly leaped forward. With one booted foot he pinned one of Malar's forearms to the ground, and he pressed the point of his sword tightly to the black-furred throat.

 

"Yield," the elf lord demanded. "Do so, and you will depart this place unharmed."

 

Malar let loose a defiant snarl. With his unfettered arm, he took a mighty swipe at the elf's legs. Corellon's blade flashed forward to parry. He batted the arm aside—and sheared off a couple of the god's claws for good measure. Quickly Corellon reversed the direction of his swing, slashing back at the Beastlord's throat.

 

But Malar had simply disappeared.

 

The point of Corellon's sword sliced into the flattened grass and carved a deep furrow into the ground below. For the briefest of moments, Corellon teetered, off-balance. Before he could get his feet solidly beneath him, a blow struck him from behind and sent him flying. A low, grating chuckled rumbled through the forest as the nimble elf lord tucked and rolled.

 

Corellon was angry now. It was one thing for Gruumsh to challenge him on this, his home plane: Gruumsh was First Power of his pantheon, a mighty god and a worthy, if treacherous, adversary. Malar, on the other hand, was a minor god who scavenged for worshipers among a hundred worlds and as many races of predatory beings. That such a god would challenge Corellon was beyond insult.

 

The elf rose and whirled, sword in hand. Hanging in the air before him was an enormous, disembodied limb that looked like the foreleg of a titanic panther. The claws were velveted; Malar had batted at Corellon like a malicious kitten playing with a mouse.

 

Corellon's fist tightened around the grip of his sword. The lights within Sahandrian's lights whirled and sparked in concert with the wrath of the sword's wielder.

 

With a rush, Corellon advanced upon his strange foe. His sword whirled and darted and spun, carving deep lines onto the catlike limb and sending tufts of black fur flying. Malar's laughter soon turned to growls of anger and pain. The pantherlike claws darted and slashed in return, but never once did they touch the elven god. Corellon danced around the Limb of Malar, taunting, offering an opening where there was none, luring the Beastlord into another attack and then yet another—each time dealing swift and terrible reprisals.

 

Malar's rage, his overwhelming instinct for the kill, drove him to fight on and on, until his panther fur was sticky with blood, the hide torn to expose sinew and even bone. Many long moments passed before it occurred to the Beastlord that his tactics were driven more by bloodlust than sound strategy. Again the god changed form. As a shroud of utter blackness, he enveloped his elven foe.

 

Corellon froze in mid-swing. Not because he was startled by the sudden midnight that had fallen around him—he knew of Malar's manifestations and he had expected this—but because of the suffocating sense of evil in the miasma that surrounded him. Corellon instinctively darted to one side; the cloud that was Malar simply moved with him. Deep, snarling laughter resounded through the blackness, deepening the smothering pall of evil.

 

An eerie red glow fell upon the elf lord. Corellon looked up into the enormous red eyes that floated near the top of the cloud. Without hesitation, the elf lord hauled his sword high overhead and threw it up with all his strength. Sahandrian flipped end over end, twice, forming a spiral of pure light as it carved through the pervasive evil. The tip of the sword sank deep between Malar's crimson eyes.

 

With a roar of anguish and rage that shook the surrounding trees, Malar disappeared.

 

Corellon blinked in the sudden brightness and sidestepped the whir that announced Sahandrian's triumphant descent. The sword thudded point-down into the ground before him.

 

As the elf lord wiped his sword free of the blood and ichor and clinging soil, his thoughts lingered on the battles he had won. Gruumsh had been dealt a grave and lasting injury, Malar utterly vanquished and banished—at least for a time. These were feats that would be remembered in song, and woven into the fabric of a thousand legends.

 

Yet Corellon found little pride in these victories and nothing of joy. Pressing hard upon him was the presentiment that what he had truly won this day was not glory but new and deadly enemies for his brother and sister gods and for their elven children.

 

 

3

 

Dark Tapestry

 

 

Araushnee made her way swiftly back to the heart of Arvandor, to the forest home she shared with her children by Corellon Larethian. Though she was returning home, the goddess was not in good spirits. She had witnessed the battle between Malar and Corellon through another of her magical globes. In the space of a single day, two of her chosen agents had failed to do away with the elven god. Once again Corellon had unwittingly blocked her progress toward her rightful place at the head of the elven pantheon.

 

Disgruntled as she was, Araushnee felt somewhat relieved once she had shed her borrowed hunter's garb and dressed herself in a filmy gown and dainty slippers, both crafted by her own hands of finest spider silk. She entered her daughter's private chamber without knocking and dumped the borrowed gear onto the floor.

 

Eilistraee was at home—a rare event—preparing herself for some woodland revel. She looked up from the boots she was lacing, clearly startled by the interruption. Her silver eyes shifted from her tumbled belongings to her mother's face, then warmed with pleasure and excitement. "Oh, mother! You have been hunting! Why did you not tell me you wished to go? We might have gone together, and made merry sport of it!"

 

"We might indeed," Araushnee mused aloud as her mind raced over the possibilities. She needed allies, and she would be unwise to overlook those closest to hand.

 

Certainly Eilistraee would not have been her first choice. The girl was given to quicksilver moods, and she possessed an uncertain temper. One moment she was a carefree child dancing like a moonbeam or running like a silver wolf through the forest; the next moment, she was either as seductive as a siren or as serious as a dwarven god. Well, the girl was of an age when such swings were common, Araushnee noted as she observed her daughter. Eilistraee was no longer a child, and she was far too beautiful to suit Araushnee, who didn't care for competition from any quarter. The fledgling goddess had inherited her mother's face, but her hair and eyes were of a silvery shade that always brought to Araushnee's mind her hated rival, Sehanine Moonbow. Eilistraee was also exceedingly tall, which further annoyed her dainty mother, but Araushnee had to admire the strength and grace in her daughter's long limbs. None in the Seldarine could outrun the Dark Maiden, and few could match her skill with the bow.

 

Yes, there were definite possibilities in Eilistraee, concluded Araushnee slyly. She doubted the girl could be induced to strike openly against Corellon, for Eilistraee adored her father. But she was young, and her very naivete could be turned into a potent weapon against the elf lord. And although Araushnee needed allies, she also needed scapegoats. One way or another, Eilistraee would serve.

 

The goddess slipped an arm around her daughter's waist. "You are right, my little raven," she said with rare warmth. "It is far past time that we hunted together. I have a plan. Listen, and tell me if it pleases you...."

 

Days are long in Olympus, longer than the turning of years upon some worlds, but to Araushnee this one seemed far too short. The morning passed in a blur of activity. First came the drudgery of traipsing through the forest with Eilistraee, learning her daughter's skills and habits—and plotting ways to turn this knowledge against the girl.

 

Her other child, her son Vhaeraun, also had a part to play, and Araushnee spent no little time schooling him in his role. This proved to be a difficult task, considering that the entire Seldarine was celebrating the dual victories of Corellon Larethian. Avoiding several score of celebrating elven deities, even in a place as vast as Arvandor, proved to be no easy matter. Nor was it easy to hold Vhaeraun's attention: Many a young goddess—and one or two of the elder powers as well—urged the handsome young god to join in the merriment.

 

At highsun, Araushnee finally left Vhaeraun to his revels. She sought out Corellon, for he might wonder if she did not, and spent the brightest hours of the day in conversation and dalliance. But the time she passed in the elf lord's presence sorely taxed her. Playing the loving consort had never before been a burden to Araushnee, but there was much yet undone, and it was difficult for her to speak sweet blandishments and tell witty stories while her mind whirled with the details of her plot. Finally she was able to slip away, laughingly claiming that she had been greedy in taking so much of his time as her own—subtly reminding him that others waited to celebrate with him. It was a powerful ploy, for all the elves save perhaps Araushnee herself valued the community of their sister and brother gods above all other things. She had places to go, and deeds best done when there were no eyes to witness them.

 

Seldom did the gods of the Seldarine travel from Arvandor, except to tend the needs and nurture the arts of their elven children. But on this long afternoon Araushnee traveled to many strange and dire places, seeking out warriors for the battle that would come all too soon. The elves were an ancient people, nearly as old as the gods from whom they had sprung, and many creatures envied and hated them. To the gods of all these folk—the orcs and ogres, the goblinkin, hobgoblins, bugbears, the evil dragons, creatures of the sky and the deepest seas, even beings from the elemental planes—Araushnee carried her seeds of war. She did not appear as herself, for to travel in elven form would be courting instant death, or, at the very least, almost ensuring the eventual discovery of her plot by the Seldarine. For this day's purpose, Araushnee took on a new and lethal form, one suited to her talents, yet one that dire gods and denizens could appreciate.

 

The sun was setting upon the elven forest when Araushnee returned to Olympus, well satisfied with her efforts. Her contentment vanished, however, when she found a visitor awaiting her in her own home.

 

The translucent form of Sehanine Moonbow strode about the entrance hall in great agitation. She stopped her pacing when Araushnee entered, and stabbed a still-hazy finger in the dark goddess's direction.

 

"I name you, Araushnee, traitor to the Seldarine, conspirator with orcs and worse," she proclaimed in her silvery voice.

 

A tendril of worry snaked into Araushnee's mind. What did the moon goddess know? And more importantly, was Sehanine merely speaking jealousy-induced suspicions, or did she possess damaging proof of Araushnee's perfidy?

 

She folded her arms and regarded the shadowy goddess. "That is a serious accusation," she said coldly. "A dangerous one, too, considering that you are, shall we say, not quite yourself?"

 

The goddess of moon magic ignored the threat. From the folds of her gown she produced a familiar object—a padded sheath, made from finest silk and worked with brilliantly colored threads. Upon it was an intricate tapestry that depicted the gods at play in their elven forest. A matchless example of the weaver's art, the scene was barded about with runes of warding and protection such as only an elven goddess might fashion. Araushnee's heart thudded painfully as she recognized the enchanted sheath.

 

"This is your work, is it not? No one else in all of Arvandor could create so wondrous a weave," Sehanine said, with no thought of flattery.

 

Araushnee tossed back her head. "That makes me an artist, not a traitor. If you have something else to say, speak quickly and then get you gone."

 

"When did you weave this tapestry? When were the magic of these runes released?"

 

The dark goddess brow furrowed as she pondered the strange questions. The runes and wardings were similar to those that gave protection from attack. Corellon, of course, had fought Gruumsh throughout the previous night. And come to think of it, Araushnee did most of the work during the cool hours after midnight, when the moon was bright...

 

Her scarlet eyes widened as understanding came. She had worked when the moon was bright and when Sehanine's power was at its height.

 

"You sensed the magic in the tapestry was wrong. You knew it—certainly you knew it, for I swear that the very moonlight carries night-born secrets to you—yet you let your lord go into battle wearing a token that condemned him to failure. If I am traitor, then so also are you!"

 

Sehanine shook her head. "I felt your animosity, that much is true, but I thought it was for me alone. Only when Gruumsh's attack unleashed your curse did I understand. Before the moon rose, when I was too weak to act, the orc shattered my lord's sword and gravely wounded him."

 

"And you, meddling bitch that you are, simply had to pick up the pieces," Araushnee said angrily. "You took the sheath from him, didn't you?"

 

"If I had not, would he even now be safe in Arvandor?"

 

Araushnee hissed with rage and frustration. The goddess of moonlight was also the goddess of mysteries. It seemed she was as good at unraveling them as she was at creating them. And Sehanine was powerful—far more powerful than Araushnee. Or, more precisely, she would be, when the moon was high. Even now, with sunset still staining the skies over Arvandor, Sehanine's glassy form was swiftly taking on substance and power. Araushnee had to act now or all would be lost.

 

Flinging out both hands, the dark goddess let the full force of her wrath and jealousy fuel the magic that poured from her fingertips. Malevolent power spun at the moon goddess in silky threads. Instantly Sehanine was enmeshed in a web far stronger than that which had stopped the charge of mighty Gruumsh One-Eye.

 

But this was not enough for Araushnee. Her rage stirred a miniature tempest, a wind that howled and raced along the walls of the hall until it formed a whirling cloud. The whirlwind caught the struggling moon goddess and tossed her into the very heart of the tiny maelstrom.

 

This was precisely what Araushnee needed. Again she lifted her hands, and again threads of magic darted toward her rival. The wind seized them, spun them, wrapped them tightly around Sehanine until the goddess was as tightly and thoroughly cocooned as an unawakened butterfly.

 

When she was satisfied, Araushnee dismissed the tempest. A smile curved her lips as she regarded the captive goddess. Sehanine was clearly visible through the layers of gossamer magic, but she could not move or speak. As a precaution, Araushnee sent a silent, gloating insult to the goddess's mind. It was like speaking to stone—not even the mind-to-mind community shared by members of the elven pantheon could penetrate that web of magic. Sehanine's capture was complete. It was also, unfortunately, temporary. Moonrise would grant Sehanine power far beyond anything Araushnee could command.

 

The dark goddess sent forth another silent summons—one that spoke to Vhaeraun's mind alone and that told him, in terms that left no room for argument, he was to cease whatever he was doing and hasten home.

 

In remarkably short order (for Araushnee had intimated what might occur if he should dally), the young god burst into the hall. His eyes went wide as he regarded the moon goddess—and contemplated the price they might pay for an attack upon one of the most powerful elven deities.

 

"Mother, what have you done?" he said in great consternation.

 

"It could not be helped. She knows—or at least suspects—that the sheath I wove for Corellon stole his sword's magic. But being an honorable sister," Araushnee sneered, "she came to confront me with her suspicions before going to the Seldarine Council. The only way she'll get there now is to drop to the ground and slither like a snake. I would almost welcome the council's intrusion into my affairs for the pleasure of witnessing such a thing!"

 

Vhaeraun peered closely at the magical web that bound Sehanine. "Will it hold, at least until the battle is done?"

 

"No," Araushnee admitted. "It would not hold at all if she had not been such a fool as to come to me—me, her bitterest rival—when her power was next to nothing. But the moon will soon rise. You must take her to a place where there is no moonlight and see that she stays there until the battle is past."

 

"And then what?" he countered in a tone that approximated his mother's sneer. "How can you hope to rule, with a goddess of Sehanine's power to oppose you? You should kill her now, when she is still helpless."

 

Araushnee's hand flashed forward and dealt a ringing slap to her son's face. "Do not presume to question me," she said in a voice that bubbled with rage. "If you are so ignorant that you believe one god can easily kill another, perhaps I was wrong to make you my confidante and partner!"

 

"But what of Herne?" pressed Vhaeraun, eager to salvage something of his dignity even it that only meant winning some small point of argument. "You told me that Malar killed him. And for that matter, why would you set Gruumsh and Malar against Corellon, if neither had hope of success?"

 

"Don't be more of a fool than you must," snapped the goddess. "It is one thing to destroy a god from another place and another pantheon—even among the gods, there are hunters and hunted, predators and prey. But to kill a member of one's own pantheon is another matter. If it were so easy, would I not already rule Arvandor?"

 

The young god regarded his mother for several moments, his eyes thoughtful and his fingertips gingerly stroking his stinging cheek. "If it is as you say," he said slowly, "then perhaps you should leave the Seldarine."

 

"Have you not heard a word I have said this day? I wish to rule the Seldarine!"

 

"Then do so by conquest, rather than intrigue," Vhaeraun suggested. "You have been amassing an army to do your will. Leave the Seldarine, and lead that army yourself! Imagine Araushnee at the head of a mighty force, the leader of the anti-Seldarine!" he concluded, his voice ringing with the drama of it and the pride of one who admires his own visions.

 

Araushnee stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head in despair. "How did I give birth to two such idiots? Think, boy! List in your mind the great and glorious generals I have enlisted!"

 

She was silent for a moment, letting the names of the Seldarine's enemies hang silent in the air between them. There was Maglubiyet, leader of the goblinkin's gods. Hruggek, who led bugbears into the hunt and into battle. Kurtulmak, the head of the kobold pantheon—it still amazed Araushnee that kobolds had a pantheon. By any measure of elvenkind, these gods were unimpressive foes. Some of the other gods who'd enlisted in the coming battle were considerably more powerful than these, and the list went on at length—but the army that resulted was far less than the sum of its parts. Many of them were enemies, or, at best, held each other in contempt. It was a volatile alliance, and far too much of the gods' ire and energy would be spent on each other. If Vhaeraun was too stupid to see that, Araushnee would do well to rid herself of him at once.

 

To her relief, a look of uncertainty crept across the young god's face as he contemplated their collective allies. "This army—it can win?"

 

"Of course not," the goddess stated baldly. "But these gods are strong enough and numerous enough to do considerable damage. And most important, it is an army that none in Arvandor will see as anything other than a coalition of elven enemies. The Seldarine will prevail, but the battle will be long and there will be losses on both sides. We will see to it, you and I, that one of those is Corellon Larethian."

 

"Our grief, of course, will be heartbreaking," added Vhaeraun with a sly grin.

 

"Naturally. And all the gods of the Seldarine, stunned by the loss of their beloved Corellon, will rally behind his consort and her heroic son. Once we have this ultimate power, doing away with Sehanine will be a small matter." She shot a sidelong, measuring look at the young god. "You are still willing to do these things?"

 

When Vhaeraun regarded her blankly, she pointed out, "After all, he is your father."

 

"And he is your lord husband. If there is a difference, please explain it to me. Otherwise, we will say that I am your son and leave the matter as settled," Vhaeraun said. His words were blunt and the implications harsh; instinctively he braced himself for another display of his mother's ready temper.

 

To his surprise, she laughed delightedly. "You are my son indeed. Your role in this will be carried out well, of that I have little doubt. Nor do I doubt your desire to rule with me when this is done. Go now—be rid of Sehanine and then return as quickly as you can. Time is short. I need you to take this sheath to the Moor, so that Eilistraee can 'find' it this night. The battle begins with the coming of new light."

 

She held her smile as Vhaeraun kissed her cheek, kept it firmly in place as he cast the minor magic that reduced the trapped moon goddess to manageable size and then bore her off through a newly conjured portal, a magical gate that glistened like black opal.

 

Perhaps, Araushnee mused, the portal led to some mortal world where the sun-bright days lasted nearly as long as a day on Olympus, perhaps to some deeply buried crypt where Sehanine might lie, helpless and deprived of moonlight until long after the battle for Arvandor was won. Araushnee did not know, but she trusted in Vhaeraun to come up with a suitable exile for her rival. After all, he was her son.

 

And because Vhaeraun was so truly her own, Araushnee's smile faded to a frown of worry the moment he was no longer there to see. It occurred to her with frightening clarity that he who would so willingly betray his father was likely to turn against the mother with whom he now plotted.

 

For the first time, Araushnee realized how truly alone she was on the path she had chosen. With this realization came a moment's regret. But the emotion did not linger, and when it passed, something else went with it—a part of Araushnee's heart that had slowly been dying, unnoticed and unmourned. The slender thread of magic that connected her to the other gods of the Seldarine and to their elven children had finally snapped. Whatever else Araushnee had become, she was no longer truly elven.

 

So be it, the goddess thought. She would still be the undisputed queen of Arvandor, for all that.

 

And if this could not come to pass, Araushnee realized with suddenly clarity, then she would simply have to seek out a place where she could rule. She was what she was, and there was no other course for her.

 

 

4

 

The Trees of Arvandor

 

 

In the long, silent hour just before dawn, the gods of the Anti-Seldarine coalition crept through the forest that surrounded Arvandor. Their passage was unhindered. The playful illusions that led passersby astray were quiet, the magical shields were down. Even the sentinels of the forest had been silenced. The treants were deep in an enchanted slumber, the very birds were hushed.

 

Not far away, in a forest grove where she came each day to welcome the dawn with music and dance, the goddess Eilistraee noted the silence with puzzlement. At this hour, the birds should have been singing their morning summons to the sun and the deer grazing upon the still-damp grasses.

 

She put away her flute unplayed and took her bow from her shoulder. Although she had never met with danger in this forest, she sensed that something was amiss. There was something wrong in the air—an intangible miasma so strong it was almost like a scent. Instinctively, Eilistraee lifted her head into the wind and sniffed like a wolf.

 

There was a scent, one very familiar to the young goddess. Though some of the elven gods abhorred the death of any forest creature, some of them, like Eilistraee, lived in concert with the ways of Nature. From time to time, she hunted as a hawk hunted, or a wolf. She hunted because she was part of the forest, and because the forest elves of a hundred worlds, whom she saw as her particular charges among the elven children of Corellon, hunted for their food. Many a time her unseen hand had guided an elven archer's aim, or her footsteps had marked a trail to waiting prey. Eilistraee knew well the smell of blood.

 

She hurried toward the scent, which grew stronger and ranker and more complex until it threatened to steal her breath and twist her stomach. Other odors mingled with the blood and hung heavy in the moist morning air: the musty stench of creatures Eilistraee had never seen, and the faint and lingering scent of terror.

 

In moments the young goddess stood over the scattered remains of some of the forest's most gentle creatures. Through eyes bright with unshed tears, she made out the bodies of a doe and her two newborn fawns. By the look of things, all three deer had died slowly. The tawny hides were marked with many small, malicious wounds. Most were punctures, such as might be made with sword or spear, but the work of claws and teeth was also in evidence. But this was not the doing of an animal, of that Eilistraee was certain. No animal in the forest would kill, except for food. This senseless carnage was something else entirely, something horrible beyond her imagining. Whoever had done this thing had killed for the sheer joy of it.

 

Suddenly Eilistraee knew what name to call that miasma that hung in the forest air like foul mist. It was something she had never encountered, but she recognized it for what it was: Evil walked among the trees of Arvandor.

 

The goddess turned away from the grim site, her silver eyes scanning the trampled, blood-soaked foliage. She would track down whoever had done this, and then she would bring him before the Seldarine Council for judgment. The killer's path would be easy to follow; the feet that had made it were careless and clumsy. But before she began, she lifted her voice in a raven's haunting call. The deer were part of Nature's circle, and by summoning the ravens she would at least give some small measure of meaning to their deaths.

 

Eilistraee had not walked far before she realized that this particular evil walked in more than one pair of boots. One creature had slain the deer, but his path soon converged with that of another. And soon after, the pair of footprints was swallowed in a broad swath of bruised and trampled foliage.

 

The young huntress dropped to one knee to study the trail. Many had passed by, too many for her to make out the individual marks. Frightened now, she put an ear to the ground. The sound that came to her was like that of distant thunder.

 

The girl leaped to her feet and climbed nimbly into the arms of an ancient oak. From this tree she moved to another, and then another, tracking the invaders from above. Her eyes were keen, and she moved nearly as fast among the trees as she could while on the ground. Soon she had the invaders in her sight.

 

There were a hundred of them, perhaps more, and all of them were gods. Eilistraee could not give names to many of them, but she recognized a few: the hulking red-furred creature was Hruggek, the god of bugbears; the goblinoid deity was one whose name she had heard but could not recall. They were led by a limping, battle-scarred Malar, who was so battered that he seemed to be driven onward by nothing but sheer malice. All of them were armed far past the demands of a hunt, and they plodded on with grim determination on a direct path toward Arvandor.

 

How this was possible, Eilistraee did not know—the way to Arvandor was known only to the elves and other forest folk. Nor could she say how it was that this motley army trampled through the forest, snarling and pushing and jostling at each other, without sending a breath of sound traveling through the air to herald their coming.

 

Desperately the young goddess wished for moonlight, for Sehanine had showed her how to travel the gossamer strands of its magic with no more than a thought. Eilistraee's own magic was no great thing, and it focused mostly upon simple matters: a knowledge of herbs and healing, a special communion with the forest's creatures, a love of music and dance. None of these things would serve now, except, perhaps, her skill for the hunt.

 

The goddess was tempted to send a small storm of arrows down upon the army. She had a quiver full of fine arrows, and an aim that was second to none. Surely she could bring down a score or more of them before they managed to pull her from her perch.

 

But then—what? And what would become of the other elven gods when this army came upon them unannounced? With difficulty Eilistraee stayed her hand. She was Corellon Larethian's daughter, and her first duty was to the elven pantheon.

 

Setting her jaw in determination, Eilistraee sped lightly through the treetops to do as duty bid. Yet there was in her heart a certain pride that it was she who would sound the alarm. And speeding her on was the hope that Corellon, the ultimate elven warrior, would reward her diligence by granting her a place by his side during the battle to come.

 

She was certain that he would do so, and not just for her sharp eye and quick report. Eilistraee had spent much of the previous night searching the Moor for her father's lost sheath. Corellon treasured it because Araushnee had made it, and he wore it always into battle as a token of his beloved. Wistfully, Eilistraee wondered if he might not also love her just a bit more when she returned such a treasure to him.

 

And so it was that Eilistraee's spirits were bright with hope and excitement, despite the danger that trod grimly toward her forest home.

 

The gods of the Seldarine swiftly gathered to meet the approaching threat. From a hundred worlds and from every corner of the sacred elven forest they came, and with them stood the gods of other faerie folk: the pixies, the sprites—even the gods of the ancient Fairy Court had donned armor for battle. The deities of the woodland folk came as well: immortal unicorns, centaurs, and wild-eyed fauns marched alongside the elves. All the powers of Arvandor rallied in uncommon unity against the threat. They gathered, secure within Arvandor's sheltering curtain of magic, and awaited Corellon Larethian's command to attack.

 

First to strike was Aerdrie Faenya, goddess of the air. The Anti-Seldarine forces pulled up sharply when she appeared; they stared open-mouthed at the apparition before them. From head to waist, Aerdrie appeared to be a beautiful elven woman with pale blue skin, flowing white hair, and feathery wings the color of summer clouds. She moved not on legs, but in a cloud of swirling mist, and with an ethereal grace and speed such as none of them had ever beheld. To the awestruck invaders, it appeared as if the very sky had suddenly descended and taken on elven form.

 

But Aerdrie was not nearly so delicate as she looked. From her outstretched hand came buffeting winds and fierce lightning strikes that sent the attacking army staggering back, grasping frantically at the whipping branches for handholds. For a brief time it appeared that the invaders might be swept from the forest by Aerdrie's wrath alone.

 

But other gods were eager to test their powers against the elves. An icy wind swept from the north like a war chariot, bearing upon it the goddess Auril. In her wake came winter storms that made the worst of Aerdrie's attacks seem like gentle zephyrs. Where Auril passed, the trees shivered, and their leaves turned hard and curled inward as if seeking the warmth that lingered within the wood.

 

Desperate to protect the elven forest from Auril's killing frosts, Aerdrie spread her wings and climbed high above the trees of Arvandor, then tucked and came at the invading goddess like a stooping falcon. The two goddesses of wind and weather met in a clash of lightning and a rumble of thunder that shook the blasted leaves from the trees below.

 

Grappling in midair like a pair of she-panthers, the goddesses were borne swiftly away on the maelstrom of their own battle. Soon there was nothing to be seen of them but the swirling clouds of dense purple and livid white in the distant sky, and the flashes of lightning that they hurled at each other like insults.

 

The Anti-Seldarine horde, suddenly freed from the unseen fetters of Aerdrie's winds, rallied and came on. To the utter horror of the elven gods, they passed easily through Arvandor's wall of protective magic. Their pace quickened to a rush as they closed the distance between themselves and the astonished elven defenders.

 

As he witnessed this defilement of the sacred forest, Corellon Larethian remembered what Sehanine had said of his sword: Sahandrian had been destroyed through elven treachery. It was clear that the goddess had spoken truth and that this same traitor was even now at work. Only an elven god could alter the magic that protected Arvandor. This same traitor, Corellon thought grimly, was most likely among the elven host that stood with him.

 

But who was it? Sehanine knew, or at least suspected, but she was nowhere to be found. There was no choice but to fight, and this he must do without knowing the name of his most dangerous enemy. Or was it possible, he thought with sudden horror, that Sehanine herself was the traitor? She had witnessed his near-defeat at Gruumsh's hand, she had given him the sword so that he would fight on rather than flee for Arvandor. And, as he had noted before, she was not standing among the forces of Arvandor.

 

Corellon took a long, steadying breath and turned his eyes to the enemy he could see. The elf lord lifted Sahandrian high. "For Arvandor," he shouted as he led the charge toward the onrushing throng.

 

The elven gods and their cohorts followed Corellon. But the place of honor at his side went to his swift and beautiful daughter. He was proud of Eilistraee for her part in alerting the elves and delighted that she had thought to search the Moor for Araushnee's token. He wore the wondrous sheath now and took comfort from the knowledge that his beloved Araushnee stood back in relative safety, casting magic with other gods whose strengths were more mystic than military.

 

Corellon stole a glance over his shoulder. Araushnee stood somewhat apart from the other gods of magic, her hands outstretched and her crimson eyes intense with gathered power. Their son, Vhaeraun, stood guard over his mother as she chanted her incantations.

 

Then the invaders were upon the elven gods, and there was no more time for thought. Corellon slashed and darted and danced, his mighty sword turning aside the axes and pikes of their foes. Many of the elven gods took a stand near him, for the invaders all but fell over each other in their efforts to get at their most powerful foe. Eilistraee fought at his side with a silvery sword and with chilling ferocity, but she was soon swept away by the battle. Corellon lost sight of her in the crush and turmoil.

 

A piercing, nasal wail that could only be Kurtulmak caught Corellon's attention. He glanced toward the shriek to see the kobold god pluck a shining black arrow from his backside. Corellon noted the odd, almost vertical angle of the arrow and glanced up—instinctively parrying a dagger's thrust as he did so. Eilistraee had found a perch in the trees overhead, and she had another black arrow already nocked and ready. She sent her father a grin that managed to be both impish and fierce, then she sent her next arrow hurtling down into the thickest part of battle.

 

Her target was a minor goblin deity who was attempting to sneak up on Corellon. Dagger clenched between his teeth, the goblin crawled on hands and knees between the legs of a hobgoblin who fought near the elven lord, standing nearly toe-to-hoof with a centaur and battling with staves. Eilistraee's arrow caught the goblin in the rump; he jerked up, and his head struck squarely between the hobgoblin's legs. The hobgoblin let out a high-pitched scream of pain and outrage. Incensed, he forgot his centaur foe entirely and began to beat his goblin ally with his staff.

 

The centaur snorted in disgust and trotted off in search of a more worthy opponent.

 

Corellon chuckled, but all thoughts of mirth vanished as a rust-pitted sword thrust toward him—through the back of the fairy god who fought at his left side.

 

Faster almost than eyes could follow, Corellon seized his fey brother and tore him off the blade—an action that would bring certain death even to most gods, but which was the fairy's only hope of survival. The sword that had impaled him was iron, as deadly to a fairy as was poison to a mortal.

 

Corellon registered the enraged whinny close behind him, heard the thud and crunch of thick bones giving way to flailing hooves. He turned and flung his wounded ally over the back of the pegasus goddess. Without stopping for breath or thought, he sidestepped the fall of the orcish god whose skull had been crushed by the winged horse, spun and ducked, then thrust up under the swing of the ogre's iron sword. He yanked the weapon free of the ogre's belly and on the backswing parried the jab of a hobgoblin's spear. And so it went, on and on, long into the morning.

 

Beset on all sides, Corellon fought on, as did all who defended the sacred forest. Here and there a form faded away—gods did not die easily, but seldom was there fighting such as this among them. There were losses on both sides, and for many long hours it was not clear who would prevail.

 

But a time came at last when Corellon swung around, looking for the next attacker, and found that there was none to hand. A few stray clangs resonated through the trees, speaking of hand-to-hand skirmishes. Nearby, an angry faun leaped up and down on a fallen goblin, no doubt leaving a tattoo of hoofprints on the defeated god's backside. An ogre stumbled wildly through the nearby forest, swatting and clawing at the small bright lights that clung to him like a swarm of enraged bees. Sprites, Corellon noted, fierce and fearless as usual. Despite their losses—for more than one light flickered and dimmed as the ogre struck wildly at his tormenters—the sprites kept fighting, their tiny swords darting and thrusting as they stung the ogre again and again.

 

The battle was nearly over; Arvandor was secure. Corellon nodded in satisfaction and thrust his sword back into its scabbard.

 

An odd, tingling feeling sizzled up his hand as his fingers brushed the weave of the tapestry sheath. Suddenly he was struck by an overwhelming sense of evil, a malevolence more terrible than Malar's cloud of darkness.

 

Corellon instinctively tried to shy away, and found that he could not. He looked down at his boots. A viscous, sickly green substance had oozed from the ground, and was holding him fast.

 

"Ghaunadar," the elf lord murmured in horror. Ghaunadar was an ancient, elemental evil, one that had never before been seen anywhere on Olympus. Only the presence of true evil could open the door of Arvandor to such a power. Corellon knew a moment of despair as he realized the extent of the treachery within the Seldarine.

 

At that moment the ogrish god who fled the avenging sprites careened past Corellon. The ogre's yellow eyes widened at the sight of the trapped elven god, then darkened with bloodlust and dreams of glory. Ignoring the stinging swords of the sprites, the ogre lifted high his flail—a length of thick chain that ended in a spiked ball—and began to swing it in circles as he came at the elven god.

 

Corellon reached for Sahandrian. The sword would not come free; the tapestry sheath clenched around it like a malevolent fist.

 

Startled, Corellon glanced toward the place where Araushnee stood. The naked triumph on her face chilled him as even the cloud of Malar or the creeping horror of Ghaunadar could not do.

 

Before he could absorb this shock, Eilistraee's shriek torn his gaze from Araushnee's gloating face. Corellon glanced up as his daughter loosed an arrow that took the attacking ogre through the throat.

 

The bestial god stopped; his whirling flail did not. The chain wrapped, once, twice, around his neck before the spiked balls slammed into his chest. His outline began to fade, but not before two more of Eilistraee's arrows bristled from his throat.

 

A fourth arrow was already in flight. Corellon felt again the tingle running from the scabbard, saw the arrow subtly change course. As his daughter's arrow spun toward him, Corellon realized why his sword had shattered during the battle with Gruumsh One-Eye.

 

The pain of Araushnee's treachery swept through him in great, crushing waves. Corellon did not even feel his daughter's arrow pierce his breast.

 

 

5

 

End of Battle, Declaration of War

 

 

Sunset had faded from the forest, and the moon was just beginning to rise when Aerdrie Faenya, battered but triumphant, flew back to the battlefields of Arvandor. The day had been long, but it had seen Auril Stormbringer soundly defeated. The price of this defeat had been Auril's eternal banishment from Olympus; henceforth, the goddess of ill weather would have to content herself with bringing winter to mortal worlds. This, of course, would add considerably to Aerdrie's responsibilities—she would have to ensure that the vanquished goddess did not focus her icy wrath upon the elven People. She suspected that many of the defeated and banished gods would take their revenge upon the mortal elves.

 

As she soared over the battle site, Aerdrie was relieved to note that her brother and sister deities had also triumphed. Most of the invaders had been banished, and the battlefield, though much trampled and bloodied, was nearly quiet. The trees of Arvandor would bear the scars of Auril's storms for some time to come, but all the forest deities would join in healing and cleansing the forest. Already the huntress daughter of Corellon was perched high in one such tree, no doubt saying healing magic over the blasted limbs.

 

The goddess swooped down toward the soon-to-be-victorious Seldarine, her thoughts already upon the celebration ahead. Her gaze fell upon young Eilistraee just as the grim-faced huntress loosed a black arrow. With horror, Aerdrie saw the arrow streak toward Corellon Larethian. It pierced the shining mail that covered the elf lord's chest and sent him hurtling backward.

 

A shriek like that of a rising wind tore from Aerdrie's throat. It did not occur to her that Eilistraee's act could be anything other than treachery, for all the Seldarine knew of the Dark Maiden's skill with the bow.

 

The goddess of air flung out both hands. From her fingers burst a tempest whose fury would have shamed Auril. The blast of wind struck the young huntress with a force that hurled her from the tree. Eilistraee plummeted down, winter-dry branches snapping beneath her as she fell. She hit the ground hard and lay still.

 

Sparing the fallen goddess not so much as a glance, Aerdrie alighted and hurried over to join the surviving members of the Seldarine, who were clustering around their fallen leader. They all fell back, however, to allow Araushnee passage, and watched in respectful silence as the goddess knelt at Corellon's side to mourn her fallen love. "He is not dead," Hanali Celanil said suddenly. Araushnee lifted her tear-streaked face from her hands and affixed an accusing gaze upon the goddess of love and beauty. "How can you, of all the gods, mock my grief? My beloved is gone!"

 

"The Dark Maiden's arrows could not slay him," said Hanali, this time more emphatically.

 

"I do not know why Eilistraee would do such a thing, but I do know that her aim is certain. Never once has she missed her mark," Araushnee countered.

 

Without wasting time in further speech, Hanali pushed aside the elf lord's consort and knelt in her place. Corellon's protective mail parted instantly before her touch. "It is as I thought," she murmured, studying the large arrowhead partially lodged in the elf lord's chest. "Eilistraee was hunting ogres—this arrow is big enough and strong enough to punch through the beasts' hides, but it's too large to slip between Corellon's ribs. It is lodged there. Help me," she said, turning to Aerdrie.

 

Between the two of them, the goddesses removed the arrow from the elven god and tended his wounds. But Corellon did not revive. There was about him an aura of immobilizing despair, as if the evil that he'd fought throughout that long day had chilled him deeply, leaving him frozen within himself. The other deities began to chant softly, speeding the elf lord's healing with their gathered power. Even Araushnee rallied from her grief to produce a shining vial from the folds of her gown.

 

"Water from Elysium, infused with healing herbs from the heart of Arvandor. It will help restore him," she said, and lifted the vial to Corellon's lips.

 

In truth, Araushnee had prepared for this eventuality. She'd had ample evidence of late of how tenaciously her "love" clung to his immortal life. The potion in her vial might not be deadly enough to kill the wounded god, but it would certainly slide him deeper into slumber. With a little luck—and perhaps some repeated doses—Corellon would never awaken. And if the nature of his deathlike slumber should ever be discovered, Araushnee would disclose a simple but devastating truth: It was Eilistraee who had gathered the herbs and brewed the potion. The young huntress had prepared the deadly poison not for her use, but for the war arrows of mortal elves; however, none but she and Araushnee knew this. Since Eilistraee was beyond speech and would be for some time to come—if not for all time—Araushnee felt confident that this particular aspect of her plot was beyond discovery. And then, once Corellon's power was hers to command, she would—

 

A ray of moonlight, sharp as a stiletto, struck with lightning speed, shattering the goddess's dream of victory and dashing the vial from her ebony fingers. Startled, Araushnee fell back from Corellon and shrieked out a curse, one so vile that it shocked the chanting elven deities into silence.

 

The attacking moonlight backed away, softened, and spread into a mist—and then took on a form that by now was all too familiar to Araushnee.

 

"Sehanine!" shrieked the dark goddess. She rose and rounded on her son, who'd been standing at her shoulder like a hovering raven awaiting a chance to feed. Vhaeraun took an instinctive step backward.

 

"You idiot!" she screamed, her face contorted with rage and frustration. "It is too soon, too soon! Another day, and I would have had so much power that Sehanine could have done nothing. But you—you have destroyed us both!"

 

She raised one hand to strike the youth, but Hanali Celanil seized her wrist with a strength astonishing for one so delicate. "Enough! Your own words raise grave questions, Araushnee, and be sure that we will find answers. Be mindful that the council that will consider these questions stands here in witness to what you have said and what you do," the goddess said sternly.

 

Araushnee spun away from her son, violently shaking off the goddess's restraining hand. She glared up into Hanali's exquisite face. "And who will call this council?" she sneered. "No elven god is Corellon's equal in power—and none but he can convene the council. Wake him if you can—or hold your accusing tongue!"

 

In response, Sehanine Moonbow and Aerdrie Faenya came to flank Hanali. From them all rose a luminous mist, one that coalesced into a single goddess of impossible beauty and daunting power. Araushnee, beholding her, knew with certainty that she beheld her own successor.

 

"I am Angharradh," the new goddess said in a voice that was wind, moonlight, and music. "From the essence of the three greatest elven goddesses am I born. I am three and I am one—three to ensure that treachery never again enters the heart of a goddess of Arvandor, and one to stand at Corellon's side."

 

Angharradh stooped and touched her hand lightly to Corellon's forehead, and again to his heart. The wounds closed, and the dark aura that clung to him seemed to part. The elf lord opened his eyes at last. They settled, not on the wondrous Angharradh, but upon Araushnee. His gaze held terrible heartbreak and equally strong resolve.

 

"A great evil has entered our midst," he said in a dry whisper. "We must confront it now, for the sake of the Seldarine and all our elven children. The Council is convened. Let any who would, speak freely."

 

And so Sehanine stepped forward and told her story, starting with her suspicions of Araushnee's enchanted tapestry. She spoke of witnessing the battle with Gruumsh, and the shattering of Corellon's sword. She told of her own foolishness in approaching Araushnee, of her capture by the dark goddess's web and her imprisonment at Vhaeraun's hands. In a few terse words she confessed to them how she had escaped and the power she had given up to do so.

 

The members of the Seldarine were silent as they absorbed Sehanine's dreadful tale. Finally Corellon spoke. "You all have heard the accusations, and you have witnessed disturbing things. You must decide what fate Araushnee has earned."

 

"Banishment." The word came as if from a single throat.

 

Corellon looked into Araushnee's malevolent crimson eyes, marveling that he had never truly seen her before. She stood taut and defiant, her fists balled at her sides and her entire slender form quivering from the effort it took her to keep from striking out at him. Where did it come from—this rage, this terrible ambition?

 

"What is this that you have done?" he said softly. "What could you possibly hope to gain by such actions? If there is anything that you lacked, you had only to speak and I would have given it to you with joy."

 

"Exactly," snarled Araushnee. "You would have given. True power is not given, but seized! As to your 'great gifts,' I held in my hands the destinies of mortal beings—but was my own ever mine to command? You treated me like some cherished and cosseted possession, while standing in the way of everything I desired!"

 

"Not so," Corellon told her gently. "Never did I show you such disrespect. I loved you."

 

"And you will yet live to regret it," she hissed.

 

The elf lord shook his head in bewilderment and turned to face his son. "And you, Vhaeraun," he added sadly, "though you also have betrayed, you have earned a different fate. You are young, and you merely followed your mother's bidding. It is tragic that this path led you into evil. You must learn to think and live on your own. In time, perhaps, you can redeem yourself and return to the fellowship of Arvandor. But for now, you must find a place on a mortal world alone."

 

"Not alone," Vhaeraun said firmly. "Eilistraee plotted with us. She deserves to share my fate."

 

"Eilistraee? I cannot believe this of the girl—" began Sehanine.

 

"You were not here!" Aerdrie broke in fiercely. "I saw her shoot the arrow that struck down Corellon! And as her own mother points out, the girl has never missed her mark!"

 

Corellon shook his head. "I cannot believe she would do such a thing!"

 

"Believe!" hissed Vhaeraun, enraged that Corellon suffered such doubt and anguish at the thought that his precious Eilistraee might have turned against him. He was willing enough to name his son a traitor! Vhaeraun had always hated his younger, favored twin. Now he would have his vengeance.

 

The young god turned to his mother, his eyes burning with an enmity that set even one such as Araushnee back on her heels.

 

"You promised me power and honor," he said in a voice meant only for his mother's ears. "But instead, your ambitions have cost me everything. Give me Eilistraee, and I will consider this day's bargain well made."

 

Araushnee gazed into Vhaeraun's eyes as if into a mirror. After a moment, she gave a barely perceptible nod. "What he says is true," she said loudly. "My children were loyal to me. Whatever fate you assign Vhaeraun should rightfully be shared by Eilistraee. Was it not she who returned to you my enchanted sheath?"

 

"Where is Eilistraee?" Corellon asked suddenly.

 

Aerdrie colored deeply, a blue flush that swept over the high sharp bones of her face in a wave of embarrassment and shame. "I was certain she attacked you, my lord, and I struck back. She fell from the tree. She may yet live; I do not know."

 

"Find her! Tend her," Corellon insisted.