Lloth stifled a yawn.

 

It was all so predictable, the Abyss. She had conquered, and she reigned, and she was so bored that she had once or twice been tempted to try to strike up a conversation with some of Kiaranselee's undead minions. She had power, but found it did not satisfy her cravings.

 

"I curse you, Corellon, you and yours," Lloth murmured, as she had so often over the many centuries that had passed since her banishment.

 

The darkly beautiful tanar'ri sank onto a throne which her minions had carved from a giant, desiccated mushroom. Propping her chin in her hands, she once again pondered her fate.

 

None of the power that Lloth had gained in the Abyss could amend for her lost status. She was no longer even a goddess, but a tanar'ri. Her form was more comely and her power was greater than most of the creatures that inhabited this place, but she was not what she had been. No amount of power in this gray, mushroom-infested plane would erase Corellon's unpaid debt.

 

Suddenly Lloth sat upright, her crimson eyes blazing with inspiration. Of course! Now that power was hers, she would reclaim her godhood. The way to this goal had been blazed by Ghaunadar himself; the Ancient One was seeking new worshippers so that he might rebuild his power. Why could she not do the same?

 

As a tanar'ri, Lloth could never return to Olympus. Even as a goddess, she might never amass the power or find the opportunity to enter Arvandor as a conqueror. But she would strike at the Seldarine where she could.

 

She would destroy their mortal children.

 

Centuries had passed since the death of the great mage Durothil, and the passing of master dragonrider Sharlario Moonflower into Arvandor. Their descendants no longer spoke of Faerie, except as a place of legend. Faerun was truly their home, and they had built a wondrous culture that owed to all the worlds from which their ancestors had fled.

 

Some of the forest folk lived as they had for centuries untold, but many elves drew away from the ways of the forest to build themselves cities that rivaled even fabled Atorrnash for splendor. Hidden among the trees and clinging to the mountains were marvelous dwellings of crystal and moonstone, streets paved with precious stones, and communities of artisans, scholars, musicians, mages and warriors. These elves produced marvelous works of beauty, magical weapons, and dazzling skills in the fighting arts.

 

In these centers of learning, the art of High Magic thrived. The Circles were established—small bands of powerful High Magi who together could cast spells beyond the imagining of any solitary elf. Each Circle was based in a tower, which quickly became the focal point of any elven community. One of the more immediately useful functions of the towers was the ability to send communications swiftly from one elven enclave to another, preventing the communities from becoming isolated. Despite the growing problems with the Ilythiiri in the south, it appeared as if the People of Faerun would achieve remarkable unity.

 

But this very wealth and power drew many new dangers upon the elves. Dark-elven raiders from the south foraged northward, attacking trade routes and farming villages. Some of these raiders settled in the far north, hiding in caves by day, and coming out to strike under the cover of darkness.

 

Dragon attacks continued, though between High Magic and the dragonriders, the elves were showing promise of supplanting the dragons as Faerun's dominant race. But it was not the powerful magic of the south or the might of dragons that the elves had most to fear: Their most dangerous enemy had become the orcs.

 

For many years, orcs attacked like the rogue wolves that from time to time stole a goat from a remote pasture. The orcs struck at the elves whenever they happened upon them. Most elven communities, even tiny farm settlements, were more than equipped with arms and magic—and the skills in both—to turn back these occasional attacks.

 

But orcs were nothing if not prolific. From time to time, their numbers grew so great that their clans spilled out of their highland lairs to form a horde that swept like locusts over the land, devoured everything before them.

 

In the autumn of the Year of Singing Sirens, the orcs marched in numbers greater than the elves had ever seen. They overran the northland plains and plunged deep into the forests. The city of Occidian—that great center of elven music and dance—was conquered and the orcs pressed on to the very gates of the ancient city Sharlarion.

 

At that time, Durothil's Keep was held by the archmage Kethryllia. This warrior-mage was also known as Amarillis, the high elven word for "Flame-Flower"—partly for her red-haired beauty, and partly for the searing anger she loosed in battle.

 

Like many of the elves, Kethryllia studied many arts during her long life, but concentrated her skills upon a single great work. For decades, this work had been the forging and enchanting of a great sword. Just two nights past, in a rite that gathered starlight and magic upon the mountaintop plateau known as Dragonriders' Leap, she had completed her task. For years, the mystics had been predicting that this sword, Dharasha—"destiny"—would play an important role in the history of the People.

 

What better task than this, the protection of their city?

 

In her tower, Kethryllia heard the desperate murmurs of her people, and their frantic preparation for war. Their skill at arms was their last defense, for the Tower of Magi stood empty and silent. The Circle had bonded with their distant brother and sister magi of Occidian's Tower to aid and support their defense of that city. But the orcs and their unknown allies had inexplicably broken through the magical wards, and the Occidian Tower had been shattered. The magical backlash had slain the High Magi of Sharlarion, as well. Thus it was that the elves were left to depend on their weapons and battle-magic, and upon those whose skills in such matters were proven and renown. Kethryllia Amarillis was chief among these—songs and legends of her exploits followed her like shadows.

 

In her centuries of life, the Moon elf warrior had helped turn back orc hordes, had battled bands of dark-elven raiders, and helped her people track and slay a green dragon that bedeviled travelers to their forest city. She had even stood against dark sorcery—that which could raise the dead into mindless, nearly unstoppable warriors. Kethryllia had lost her sister, and very nearly her own life, to the tireless swords of a zombie host. Her response to all these evils was the power of the enchantments she placed upon Dharasha. It was time to put the weapon's powers to the test.

 

But it had been many years since Kethryllia had been in battle. Of late she had been thinking that perhaps it was time to settle down, to raise a clan before the call to Arvandor grew too strong for her to ignore.

 

Kethryllia's lips curved in a smile as she thought of Anarallath, the light-hearted cleric of Labelas Enoreth with whom she shared a bond stronger than friendship or passion, though certainly there were those things between them as well. It was time that they were wed. She was no longer young, even as elves consider matters of youth, though she was still as lithe and flame-haired as she had been as a maiden. It was time and past time that they formalized their love.

 

As Kethryllia prepared for battle, she gave no thought to the possibility that their bonds of love might be broken this day, and that the clan she hoped to found might die unborn.

 

The elf woman quickly dressed herself in padded leather armor, over which she placed a long vest fashioned of tiny bronze and silver plates, a wondrous armor that was nearly as flexible as mail, and that paid homage to the bronze and silver dragons who served as guardians of the city. But the dragonriders, Sharlarion's second-strongest defense, were far to the south, where a pair of mated black dragons ravaged the countryside to create new territory for their maturing brood.

 

The High Magi were dead, the dragonriders gone. This fight belonged to Kethryllia, and she found that she was eager for it. She thrust her sword into its new scabbard and tucked knives into sheathes set into her boots and strapped to her forearms. On impulse, she picked up an ancient dagger—a wonderful jeweled weapon that she had recently discovered wrapped and warded and stored in a chest in a far corner of Durothil Keep. Legend suggested that it was once owned by one of their city's founders. She would carry it now, in defense of the city and the legacy that Sharlario Moonflower had left behind. Thus prepared, she tucked her flaming braids under a winged helmet and strode out into the courtyard.

 

The city was strangely silent, though nearly every elf who lived within it was ready for battle and in position. They stood in disciplined formation. First, a vast shield-wall of elves formed a barrier beyond the perimeters of the city—Sharlarion had no walls of stone or timber, for it melded with the forest. Behind the first defense stood the archers. The ground before them bristled with ready arrows, and their quivers were as large and full as a farmer's basket at harvestide. Immediately behind the archers were elves armed with swords and spears. This group would quickly dispatch any orcs who managed to break through. The next ring of defenders were wielders of magic—not High Magi, but formidable nonetheless. Clerics stood ready to tend the wounded, and even the children moved with quiet efficiency: bringing buckets of water, crushing herbs for poultices, rolling bandages.

 

Kethryllia nodded as she surveyed the battle-ready elves. She took her place among the fighters, and with them listened to the rumbling, ominous crescendo of the orc horde's approach.

 

When the first of the orcs came into sight, a murmur of consternation rippled through the elves. The orcs marched boldly down the trade route in precise and orderly fashion. Keeping pace alongside them were other squadrons, who kept as tight a formation as the thick foliage allowed.

 

This was unusual behavior for orcs. It was apparent to Kethryllia, who knew firsthand of horde tactics, that some greater intelligence was directing their movements. And since orcs respected brute strength far more than they did intelligence, it was likely that their unknown commanders possessed a formidable amount of both.

 

For the first time, Kethryllia's confidence in the battle's outcome began to waver.

 

The orcs came to a sudden stop. There was a flurry of movement back in their ranks, but none of the elves could discern its cause. Suddenly a harsh thud resounded through the trees. With a whine and hiss, an enormous flaming arrow soared up over the heads of the orcs and descended in an arc toward the city.

 

"A ballista," Kethryllia muttered in disbelief. The orcs were barely beginning to manage the simple long bows they copied from their elven foe. Where did they learn of such weapons?

 

Fortunately, the elven wizards had expected fire arrows—albeit, a considerably smaller version. A pale-haired female pointed her crystal staff at the oncoming blaze and shrieked a single word. White fire flashed from the staff and leaped up to meet red. The ballista's flame was frozen instantly; the weapon hung in the air for a moment, glowing like a giant magical torch fashioned of amber and ruby. It fell to shatter harmlessly against the paved courtyard of an elven dwelling.

 

More flaming arrows followed, with the same result. When it became apparent to the attackers that this tactic was availing them nothing, a horrid, rumbling command rolled out over the orc horde. Scores of the bestial creatures broke into a screaming charge.

 

The elves' shield-wall dipped, and archers sent a storm of arrows into the oncoming ranks. Deadly accurate were their arrows, and the orcs were cut down like grain before a scythe.

 

Wave after wave of orcs came on, only to be felled by the elven archers. Soon the attackers were climbing over a thick carpet of the slain, only to fall themselves. So vast were the numbers of dead orcs that soon the elves who formed the shield wall were forced to fall back toward the city.

 

Kethryllia frowned as she watched the continuing slaughter. Despite the number of orcs who lay on the forest floor, many remained to carry on the attack. It occurred to her that the elves might well be defeated by their own success.

 

The piles of corpses were hemming them in, pushing the elven defenders back into the city itself. It would not be long before the outer buildings were within the reach of the orcs. Once the invaders captured the outer buildings, they could easily overrun the city, for most of the buildings were connected by intricate walkways that wove a nearly invisible web through the trees.

 

Moreover, the grisly wall was impeding the archers' effectiveness. The elves could no longer see their targets, but were shooting blind up over the heaps of slain orcs in hope that the falling arrows might find a mark. The clank of arrows against unseen wood and leather shields suggested that this tactic was not meeting with much success.

 

Suddenly Kethryllia understood the horde's strategy. The orcs were deliberately using their brothers' bodies as a bridge to victory. Soon, they would swarm over the top of the pile in numbers that the elven archers simply could not decimate.

 

Well, the elves would simply have to beat them to it.

 

Kethryllia lifted her sword high. "To me!" she shouted. "To me, all who would take the fight into orcish ranks!"

 

There was a moment of stunned silence as the fighters regarded the apparently suicide-bound warrior. Then Anarallath shouldered his way through the clerics and came to stand at her side.

 

She gave her love an incredulous look—he was no coward, but neither was he trained for such fighting. Anarallath smiled and shrugged.

 

"Perhaps I grow homesick for Arvandor," he said with forced lightness. Then his face grew deadly serious, and he lifted his voice to carry out over the ranks of the elven warriors. "If we do not fight, all of us, then Arvandor will be the only home remaining to our People!"

 

Anarallath's words galvanized the fighters, and they came as one to stand with the Silver elf warrior. If an unarmed cleric had the courage to charge an orc horde, they could do no less. Which, Kethryllia suspected, was precisely what Anarallath intended.

 

The elven priest cast a smug grin at his love as he accepted a short sword from one of the fighters. "Well, Flame-Flower, will you lead this charge, or shall I?"

 

"We go together," she said with deep gratitude. Then, because she could not resist teasing him in kind, she added, "But do try to keep up."

 

Anarallath's laughter was lost in Kethryllia's ringing battle cry. The Moon elf warrior scrambled up the wall of fallen orcs and flung herself into the next wave of attackers.

 

This development startled the orcs and halted their headlong charge. But it was only for a moment—the creatures' fangs bared in fierce grins as they came at the elven warriors with renewed vigor. Orcs enjoyed killing elves in any number of ways, but few things were as satisfying to them as hand-to-hand combat.

 

The nimble elves darted and spun amid the churning melee, making several hits for every one the much-slower orcs managed to land. Kethryllia seemed to be everywhere, her great sword flashing as it turned aside the battle-axes of her foe. And where she went, so did Anarallath. He was not as skilled a fighter as she, but the mind-and-soul rapport the lovers shared enabled them to work together as smoothly as if they were Tower-trained magi melded together in the casting of a single spell.

 

But as the battle raged on and on, Kethryllia began to wonder if this had been a wise strategy, after all. The elven warriors were pinned between the dead orcs and the host of attackers. Fortunately, the orcs' own vast numbers seemed to work against them. So eager were they to engage their elven foes that they all but clambered over the orcs in front of them to get at their preferred opponents. As often as not, their axes and swords bit into orcish flesh—either by accident, or in sheer impatience.

 

At long last, the battle was over. Most of the elven defenders had fallen, and only a few score of orcs remained of the hundreds who had marched upon Sharlarion. These survivors fled noisily into the forest.

 

"May you be greeted by the teeth of the Iythari," Kethryllia muttered as she sheathed her sword.

 

It was then that she saw the orcs' commander. A darkness that she had taken to be a forest shadow broke free of the thick foliage and rose to a height twice that of an elf. The creature's horned head had a face that reminded Kethryllia of a slavering, battle-mad wild boar. Its massive body was shaped like that of an orc, but an extra pair of muscled arms erupted from its hairless torso. Wings like those of a gigantic bat sprung from its shoulders. Except for a pair of burning crimson eyes, the creature was the dull and lifeless color of desiccated wood.

 

A roar more terrible than that of a dragon broke from the Abyssal creature, and it lifted its two pairs of taloned hands in preparation for a magical attack. "You have not yet defeated Haeshkarr!" the creature rumbled.

 

This, Kethryllia had not anticipated. As the warrior stood in stunned indecision, Anarallath shouted for his brother and sister clerics to join him. He darted forward, brandishing his holy symbol of Labelas Enoreth and chanting the most powerful spell of banishment known to the priests of Sharlarion.

 

One by one, the priests took up the chant. Under their combined assault, the forest behind the tanar'ri seemed to dissolve into a swirling maelstrom of gray mist. The massive figure of the creature began to waver, then faded into a translucent haze that was sucked inexorably toward the swirling mist.

 

The tanar'ri Haeshkarr shrieked with fury as it was pulled back into the gate. With a sudden surge, almost too fast even for elven eyes to follow, it lunged forward and seized the priest who had defeated him. Then just as quickly, both fiend and Anarallath were gone.

 

Without thought or hesitation, Kethryllia exploded into action. She ran like a deer for the fading gate and dived headlong into the Abyss.

 

The warrior found herself alone in a world of swirling gray mists. Distant cries and groans resounded through the dank air, but there was no sign of life except for the giant mushrooms that squatted in the sludge.

 

Suddenly the mist parted, revealing the tanar'ri Haeshkarr. With two of its hands, Haeshkarr held the struggling Anarallath slung over its shoulders, as a hunter might carry a slain deer. The creature lifted one of its free hands and pointed at Kethryllia.

 

"Kill her, then attend me," it snarled to no one that Kethryllia could see. Knowledge of her foe wouldn't have mattered, for the elf was already sprinting toward the tanar'ri. But the dense gray fog snapped shut around the demon and the captive elf like a cloak.

 

A hollow, hooting cry echoed directly over Kethryllia's head. The warrior ducked as an eagle-sized creature burst from the sheltering mist in a flurry of wings.

 

She darted aside and squinted up into the foul mist. Six leering, winged creatures flapped overhead, circling her like ravens assessing the repast offered by a recent battlefield. Kethryllia drew her sword, slashing out as another of the imps dived at her. But the creature was agile enough to veer away before she could touch it. They continued like this, harrying her from all sides. It soon became clear to the elf that she could not overcome these creatures while they flew.

 

Kethryllia deliberately slowed her sword, missing parries and accepting a few hits from the creatures' teeth and talons. As soon as she thought she could convince them she was bested, she crumbled and fell face forward onto the seething ground, her sword lying beside her limply curled fingers.

 

The imps landed and began circling her cautiously. One of them leaped forward and took an experimental rake at her hand with its talons. Kethryllia forced herself to stay absolutely still. Cackling with evil glee, the imps closed in to feed.

 

Kethryllia snatched up Dharasha and swung it around hard and low, using the momentum to pull herself into a sitting position. As the mighty sword circled, it cut through two of the startled creatures. The other imps squawked and started to flap away. But the elf continued her spin, coming to her feet as she went. By the time she'd circled three times, spiraling up with her sword as she went, five of the imps lay dead.

 

She leaped at the sole imp who had succeeded in taking flight, and just barely managed to seize its ankle. The thing was stronger than she'd anticipated and it pulled her sharply forward. They fell together, both of them landing face first in the sludge. But the imp was up in an instant, hobbling along at astonishing speed—and dragging the elf behind.

 

The warrior tried to bring her sword arm up and to bear, but the heavy sludge through which the imp dragged her kept it pinned to her side. She hooked her boots around a mushroom stem, hoping to slow the imp's headlong flight. The fragile plant gave way immediately, sending a spray of stinging, foul-smelling spores into the air. Kethryllia's eyes burned as painfully as if she'd caught a skunk's blast full in the face.

 

Blinded, aching in every muscle, the Moon elf refused to let go. There was a chance she could subdue this imp and force it to bring her to its master. At the very least, she could destroy the tanar'ri's minions and hope to draw its wrath upon herself. She was not sure how else she might find the tanar'ri and her love in this vast gray place.

 

Suddenly her arm jerked upright with a force that pulled it painfully loose from her shoulder. The imp had despaired of shaking her loose, and had once again taken flight.

 

Kethryllia still couldn't see, but she knew where to swing. She scrambled to her feet, half-dragged upright by the desperately flapping imp, and swung Dharasha in a sweeping arc. There was a brief, terrible scream and then a flood of scalding ichor.

 

The elven warrior tossed aside the portion of the imp she still clutched and then staggered out of the steaming, foul-smelling puddle. She sheathed her sword rather than plunge it into the ground—for she did not trust the churning sludge beneath her feet not to snatch it from her—and began to tend her hurts.

 

First she clutched the shoulder with her good hand and forced the bone back into its proper place. The pain was intense, and the shoulder would be very sore for many days to come, but she needed whatever use of that arm she could muster for the battle ahead. That done, she groped in her bag for the healing potion that every elven warrior of Sharlarion carried. She pulled the stopper with her teeth and poured a small amount into one hand, then massaged it over the lids of her burning eyes.

 

She was aided by the terrible, numbing cold of the Abyss, which oddly seemed to ease the pain and speed the return of her vision. Or perhaps she was just noticing the cold now that her pain was receding. Whatever the case, the dank, vaguely chill air had suddenly taken on a wintry blast—and carried on the cold winds was a stench beyond anything Kethryllia had imagined possible.

 

Through the haze of her still-aching eyes, the warrior saw standing before her a beautiful, black-skinned elf, taller and more terrible than any mortal being and quivering with barely suppressed rage. Despite the cold, the elflike creature was dressed only in filmy black scarfs and a veritable dragon's hoard of silver jewelry.

 

Standing in neat formation on either side of the goddess was a squadron of vacant-eyed elves, some of whom were badly rotted. Though all had once been black of skin, most of the creatures' faces had faded to dry and dull gray. Green flesh, even bone, showed through where the dead skin had peeled away.

 

Kethryllia's throat tightened with horror and dread as she considered these unnatural creatures. All of these undead elves were well armed, and though they would fight without passion, they would fight with all the skill they had known in life. Kethryllia had faced living dark elves before, and she knew just how formidable these skills could be.

 

The Moon elf turned to the tall dark elf and talked fast. "Great goddess, I have no quarrel with you or your warriors. I will leave your realms at once, if that is your wish—only first tell me where I might find the tanar'ri Haeshkarr."

 

"Haeshkarr?" the elflike being echoed in a shrill, sulky voice. "He is a minion of Lloth. What business do you have with him?"

 

"Revenge," Kethryllia said grimly, and was surprised to see the goddess's scarlet eyes light up with insane glee.

 

Just as quickly, the light snapped out. "A mortal," the dark elf sneered. "What use could you be to the great goddess Kiaranselee? Many desire vengeance, but few have the means or the will to achieve it!"

 

"Then let me prove myself," the elf said calmly, for a plan was quickly formulating in her mind. "Send any three—any five—of your undead warriors against me. If I prevail against such as these, perhaps I might be of some value to you in your own vengeance against Lloth."

 

It was a guess, but apparently a good one. The goddess clapped her hands in delight, then swept a pointing finger at several of her dark-elven slaves. "Kill her, kill her, kill her!" she shrilled at them.

 

Five of the zombies lifted their weapons and advanced on Kethryllia. The Moon elf drew her enchanted sword and lunged at the nearest undead. The creature blocked the strike with a jerky, yet precise parry. Kethryllia flung the enjoined blades high, then pivoted to the side and kicked out hard at the creature's knees. The desiccated bone crumbled, and the undead creature went down. The elf brought Dharasha down in a sweeping backhand. The moment that the enchanted sword touched the undead dark elf, the creature dissolved into dust.

 

The goddess Kiaranselee shrieked, whether from rage or excitement Kethryllia could not say. Nor did she have time to ponder the matter. The Moon elf warrior blocked the high sweeping cut of another zombie's sword, then spun back to parry the lunge from the undead who crept up behind her. She dropped low to the ground in a crouch, then brought down both of them with a deft leg-sweep. She stabbed first one, then the other creature, before either had the chance to rise.

 

The remaining pair of zombies rushed Kethryllia while she was down. She rolled aside, then rolled back, bringing the flat of her sword swinging over to smack the nearest undead. This one crumbled instantly, as well. The Moon elf leaped to her feet and faced off against the remaining dark-elven slave. In moments, it too lay at rest—if a drifting pile of foul-smelling dust could be considered eternal peace.

 

Breathing hard, Kethryllia faced down the dark-elven goddess. She knew that even at her best—rested and unhurt—she could never overcome five dark-elven fighters. But Dharasha had been enchanted to destroy undead creatures with a mere touch. It held no such power over the denizens of the Abyss. Kethryllia figured that the goddess didn't need to know any of this.

 

The goddess of vengeance and the undead applauded. "Oh, well done, mortal! Not even the tanar'ri can overcome the best of my servants with such ease!"

 

Kethryllia lifted her sword to her forehead in a gesture of respect. "Then command me, and tell me how I might serve both your vengeance and my own."

 

With a lightning change of mood, the goddess drew herself up into a regal pose. "Swear allegiance to me, first," she demanded. "Follow me in life and beyond, and you will ever be first among my servants."

 

The Moon elf hesitated—after all, Anarallath's life was at stake. Though her first instinct was to agree to anything the obviously insane and undoubtedly evil goddess demanded, Kethryllia found that she could not.

 

"I am sworn to Corellon Larethian, the master of both magic and the fighting arts," she said stoutly. "I will serve you as best I can in this matter alone, but I can swear allegiance to no other god."

 

Amazingly enough, the flicker of temper in the goddess's eyes did not erupt into full-scale wrath. "Corellon Larethian," she repeated slyly. "Oh, how that will sting! Very well, mortal, I will tell you where Haeshkarr might be found. All that you need do in payment is this: with each tanar'ri you slay, proclaim that you do so in the name of your god!"

 

 

Lloth clutched at the armrests of her mushroom throne and gazed down into a scrying pool she had fashioned from black slime. She watched in rage and disbelief as a mortal elf cut her way through a horde of powerful tanar'ri. With each creature that fell, the elf woman proclaimed a victory for Corellon Larethian. And each victory was a dagger-thrust at Lloth's pride.

 

Without noticing what she did, the beautiful tanar'ri slipped down from her throne to kneel at the edge of the pool, watching in disbelief as the flame-haired elf brought a single sword against the four matched weapons wielded by the mighty Haeshkarr—a tanar'ri that even Lloth herself did not command without a certain degree of diplomacy. Her nails dug deep into the muck as she watched the powerful creature fall—and the victorious elf woman fall into the arms of a mortal being whose golden beauty was far too reminiscent of Corellon himself.

 

Lloth's first impulse was to seek out and slay the mortals who presumed to enter her realm. The desire to destroy this knight of Corellon was like a fever in her soul—the first true heat she had felt in this world of half-light and eternal despair for many, many years. But enough remained of the wily Araushnee to stay the tanar'ri's hand—at least until she could ascertain how best to serve her own purposes.

 

Thoughtfully, Lloth watched as the elven lovers struck out in the direction from which the female had come. In time, they would find a gate back to their mortal home. If she did not hinder them, they would probably escape the Abyss. But, Lloth reasoned, they need not escape her.

 

The tanar'ri's heart quickened as she considered the possibilities. She would follow this formidable champion of Corellon Larethian, and the male cleric whose purity of heart was an offending blot of light on the Abyssal landscape. If these elves were representative of the People they left behind, what better place to begin her vengeance against Corellon and his precious children?

 

Lloth's lips curved in a smile. And where there were elves, there were potential worshipers. She had little hope of corrupting such elves as these she had seen this day, but did not even the evil and insane Kiaranselee have her followers? Lloth would follow the elven lovers to whatever world they called home, and see if she might stake out a claim there.

 

The goddess once again consulted the scrying pool. In it she conjured the image of the red-haired warrior and the golden male she had rescued. Lloth watched as the pair emerged triumphant into a ravaged forest, as they waded through the carnage left in the wake of the tanar'ri Haeshkarr. Lloth was intrigued—she had not known that her minion demon had such interesting toys at his disposal as rampaging orc hordes. The destruction they had visited upon the elves was most gratifying. Lloth remembered Malar, and the Great Hunter's desire to gather to him orcish worshipers. She wondered how he'd fared, and whether it might not be time to visit him once again.

 

As she viewed the world, Lloth felt the tug of a familiar presence. Dimly, she recognized it as the one elven god from whom she was not entirely estranged by her new nature as tanar'ri—her son, Vhaeraun. Curious now, she commanded the scrying globe to seek out the young god's territory.

 

The scene changed from the trampled elven forest to a city that surrounded a long, narrow bay. Here also was war, but war at its beginning rather than its grim conclusion. The goddess watched with intense interest as hordes of dark-skinned elves readied for battle. A delicious tang of evil was in the air, a weave of dark magic that centered on a single elven male.

 

Lloth gazed with interest upon the leader of the ready army, a dark elf called Ka'Narlist. Though he looked young and vital, Lloth sensed that he was an ancient being, sustained long past the normal years of an elf by the force of his magic. The source of this incredible power fascinated Lloth: The wizard wore a cunningly woven vest fashioned of chain mail and dark pearls—each of which contained the essence and magic of a slain Sea elf. Delightful, this elf!

 

The goddess eased her way into his thoughts, and found that his mind was not barricaded against such as she. What she read there was grim enough: Ka'Narlist was utterly rapacious and powerful enough to feel himself able to indulge his desires without qualm or restraint. What he wanted now was power—magical power, and the power that came with conquering and subjugating the fair races of elves—but his ultimate goal required nearly the power of a god. He was vain enough to believe it within his grasp.

 

Lloth rather liked him.

 

She smiled as she beheld the ancient, resourceful wizard. She approved of his ambitions, and she eyed with interest the things he offered: a powerful army ready and eager to crush the fair elves, magic that fell just short of godhood, followers that might well become hers. That she would snatch him from his current devotion to Ghaunadar added hugely to his appeal.

 

A shimmer of anger passed through the dark goddess at the thought of the Elemental Evil, but this time her ire was directed at herself rather than some other being. While she had busied herself carving a vast domain from the Abyss, her conquered subjects had found more interesting things to do elsewhere.

 

No more. Before her, Lloth saw possibilities far more to her liking than tormenting the creatures of the Abyss. The dark elf Ka'Narlist was a being she could truly enjoy. Perhaps it was time that she take a new consort. She had no doubt that he would accept her joyfully—they were as like each other as two dark pearls. She might even bear children to him, and why not? She would not be the first god to be tempted by a mortal, nor was she likely to be the last. And the children they might spawn—ah, the possibilities of breeding such delicious evil into a race of elves! Such elves would trample Corellon's children, conquering the world and breeding worshipers for Lloth, followers she could claim with pride!

 

Ka'Narlist's dark and vaulting ambitions set new flame to her own. Lloth would be a goddess once again. She who once had spun the thread of the dark elves' destiny felt that her hands were set once again to the loom of fate.

 

The scene in her scrying globe changed again, returning to the forest and the pair of elven lovers. With a cynical smile, Lloth observed as the survivors of the elven settlement lauded the warrior and her lover as heroes.

 

There was little that Lloth enjoyed more than dark irony. More satisfying than hatred, more subtle than vengeance, here it was before her, and in plenty! What would these elves think, she wondered, if they knew what eyes had followed their beloved Kethryllia to their forest home? If they knew what evil the flame-haired warrior's courage and devotion had unleashed among them?

 

Even as the thought formed, Lloth felt a familiar pulse of evil emanate from the scrying pool. She reached out for it, seeking the source. An ancient dagger in Kethryllia's weapon belt pulsed with subtle, malevolent energy.

 

After a startled moment, the goddess recognized the source of that evil: the dagger had been sent north by Ka'Narlist himself, several centuries past. He had waited with rare patience until someone had found the hidden dagger, and had worn it in respect for the honorable elf who once owned it. And Ka'Narlist, sensing the energy, prepared his warriors to march in conquest. Irony upon irony!

 

Lloth threw back her head and laughed with dark delight. Ah, but she had chosen her new consort well! For once, she did not begrudge Sehanine Moonbow or Angharradh their place at Corellon Larethian's side. She, Lloth, had found a mate much more to her liking!

 

 

9

 

The Sundering

 

 

Centuries passed, centuries during which the children of Lloth preyed with increasing strength and ferocity upon the children of Corellon. Such was the force of their enmity that the fair races of elves, Gold and Silver and Green, set aside their constant rivalries to seek a combined deliverance from their dark elven foes.

 

They gathered in the very heartland of Faerun by the hundreds, the High Magi of the elven people. All the fair races of elves—except for the sea folk, whose magic had long ago dwindled almost to nothing—sent the best and most powerful of their mages to the Gathering Place.

 

Upon a broad plain, a place set aside long ago for this use, the elven mages met to prepare for the greatest spellcasting any of them had ever known. On the land surrounding this place, farm villages and a trading community had grown with the sole purpose of preparing for and supporting this event. The elves of Gathering Place—for so it had been known since the childhood of the most ancient elves still walking in mortal form—had made this day their life's work. Though there were hundreds of magi, each found a carefully-prepared welcome that would do honor to a Seldarine avatar.

 

For centuries the elves who made Gathering Place their home had labored to build a Tower greater than any their world had seen before. Fashioned from white granite that reflected the elusive colors of the sky, it stood taller than the most venerable oak. A large, curving stairway wound its way up the entire inner wall of the Tower, and onto each stair was carved a stone seat, and the name of the mage who would occupy it. Together, these mages would cast a single spell.

 

Never before had so many High Magi gathered in one place. Together they had the power to destroy worlds—or to create one.

 

From the fabric of magic, from the very Weave itself, the elves had planned to fashion a new and wondrous homeland, a place that was theirs alone.

 

Not every elf on Faerun applauded this vision. Tensions between the Ilythiiri and the fair elves of the north were increasing with each season that passed. The decision to exclude the dark-elven mages from this great spell-tapestry only served to increase the animosity between the races. Yet the Gold elves, in particular, were adamant. They would create an island kingdom. This place, which the oracles had named Evermeet, was to be a place where no dark elf might follow, a haven for the children of Corellon Larethian. The dark-elven followers of the goddess Eilistraee found in this a particularly poignant irony, but their voices were drowned by the insistent chorus of Gold elves seeking a return to the glories of Faerie.

 

There were also protests from those who studied the ancient lore, for they were made uneasy by the tales their ancestors had passed down through the centuries. The story of lost Tintageer, destroyed by a spell so powerful that its wake could swallow a mighty island, was told as a cautionary tale in every village. But most of the elves thought of this as little more than a legend. And even if it were true, what had that to do with them? They had complete confidence in their magic, and in the visions of the elders who saw an island homeland as the People's true destiny.

 

Finally the day came for the spell to be cast. In the quiet hours before dawn, the magi came in silence to the tower and took their appointed places to await the arrival of the elf who would channel and shape the casting.

 

Long ago, lots had been cast under the prayerful guidance of a similar gathering of elven priests. They had chosen an elf to act as Center—the mage who would gather the threads of magic from all parts of the circle and focus it into a single purpose.

 

Oddly enough, the person chosen for this task was not at the time a mage at all, but a slip of a girl, a wild elf maiden known only as Starleaf. She accepted her destiny willingly enough, and though it saddened her to leave the forest behind, she was a diligent student and she took well to her training by the Magi. There was not an elf among the gathering who would not admit, however grudgingly, that Starleaf was the best and most powerful Center they had ever known.

 

The forest elf took her place in the middle of the tower floor and began the long, slow meditation that enabled her to reach out to and find the place on the Weave that belonged to each of the magi in the Tower. Eyes closed, she turned slowly as she gathered each thread of magic and let it flow through her into a single place of power. In her mind's vision, she could see the shimmering weave as clearly as if it were etched in the night sky. When all the elves were fully attuned, Starleaf began the great chant.

 

Like the wave of a mighty ocean, the cadence of the chant rose and fell as the elves gathered in the power of the Weave and shaped it to their will. On and on they chanted, throughout that day and into the long night. As the Day of Birthing dawned, the spell began to approach its apex. The very Tower shuddered as the force of the magic drawn from the Weave itself flowed through the gathered magi. Utterly caught up in the casting, the magi did not at first notice that the flow of power was taking on a momentum of its own.

 

Starleaf felt it first. The elves did not merely use the Weave, they were part of it—and she felt the souls of the High Magi begin to rip perilously free of the fabric of life.

 

At that moment, the casting was completed. Yet the flood of magic power went on and on, and the elves could not come free of it.

 

The Tower shook as if it were being tossed like a toy between two titanic gods, and the roar and shriek of the unleashed spell melded with the cacophony outside the Tower. With her heightened senses, Starleaf felt the agony of the land as tremor after tremor ripped through it. She saw the one land of Faerun sundered, and vast portions of it swept away, tearing again and again as they went to leave scatterings of islands upon the once-pristine ocean. She saw the destruction of great cities, the collapse of mountain ranges into the sea, the flooding tides that swept away terrified People and creatures on a hundred newborn shores. All this she saw, for at this moment Starleaf was utterly one with the Weave.

 

And yet, she stood alone. The mortal forms of the magi had been consumed by the magic, and their life essence was caught up in it, lending fuel to the cataclysm they had unleashed.

 

But Starleaf could still envision the faint, glowing lines of the web of magic they had fashioned. She cupped her hands before her, summoning the power that once had been the High Magi of Faerun. She called to them, pleaded, entreated, and demanded, using all the Art to which she had devoted her life. She clung to them as they faded inexorably away.

 

But as the final glimmer of their collective light faded from her mind, as darkness blotted out even the bright pattern of the Weave, Starleaf's last thought was of the ancient forest, the homeland that she had left behind in her duty to create another.

 

When Starleaf awoke, she was lying on the cold floor of the dark and silent Tower. She dragged herself up, trying vainly to push through the haze of pain and utter exhaustion that gripped her. The first thought that came to her was that the Gathering had failed.

 

As the dull roar faded from her head, she caught a sound that no ear could hear—a silent hum beside her.

 

Starleaf blinked away the spinning lights that whirled before her eyes and focused on the object.

 

In a shallow bowl that looked as if it had been carved from a single blue-green gem was planted a small tree—a tiny mature oak, perfect in miniature and glimmering with tiny green and gold leaves. Wonderingly, Starleaf touched a finger to the silvery bark, and felt a nearly overwhelming surge of love and recognition. She instinctively knew that within the tree dwelt the souls of the High Magi, and they were content.

 

"But how can that be?" she murmured. "Contentment, when we have failed?"

 

"Not so," said a gentle voice behind her. "At least, not utterly."

 

Starleaf turned, and her eyes widened in awe and terror. Standing before her were two golden-haired elves, too beautiful to be mortal beings. The male was dressed in armor, and lights swirled like dizzy stars within the wondrous sword that hung at his side. His female counterpart, gloriously gowned and shining with gems the color of starlight, stepped forward and lifted the stunned forest elf to her feet.

 

Starleaf knew without doubt that she beheld the most powerful of the elven gods, and she sank into a deep reverence.

 

"Rise, and listen to what we have come to say. You were chosen for this task under our guidance," the goddess Angharradh told her. "Once, in a land devoted to my worship, the priest and mages cast a spell that nearly destroyed them all. There are some things the gods cannot prevent, for to do so would be to take all choice from the hands of their mortal children. Yet this time, we did what we could. With your help."

 

The elf looked to the tiny tree. "What is this?"

 

"The Tree of Souls," Corellon Larethian told her soberly. "Guard it well, for it will play an important part in ensuring that the People have a home upon this world. Keep it safe on Evermeet, in a hidden place."

 

Hope brightened Starleaf's eyes. "Evermeet? It exists? Where is it?"

 

Corellon touched a finger to the elf's forehead. Instantly she saw in her mind's eye a spinning world, upon which she recognized the torn and scattered remnants of what had been Faerun, the one land. Glowing like an emerald in the sea was a small island, separated from land masses on either side by vast expanses of water. And even as she watched, the tattered Weave began to repair itself—dimmer over much of the world, true, but bright and fair upon the island.

 

Then Starleaf was on the island itself. Its beauty brought tears to her eyes, for here was everything an elf could desire: deep and ancient forests, rich glades, laughing rivers, pristine white shores, the company of both forest creatures and magical beings, and a joyful, vibrant magic that filled the air like sunlight.

 

Starleaf touched the Tree of Souls, wishing to share this vision with the elves who died to bring it into being.

 

"We succeeded, after all," she murmured joyfully.

 

"As to that, I am not so certain," Angharradh said sternly. "When you go from this tower, you will quickly see what I mean. Have you any concept how many of the People lie dead? How utterly changed is the world?

 

"It is true that Evermeet is in part the result of the magic you and yours tore from the Weave of Life. But that alone would have not availed—too much of the power of the casting was drawn off by the destruction that resulted. For lack of a better explanation, you might say that Evermeet is a piece of Arvandor, a bridge between the worlds—and the combined work of mortal elves and their gods. Do not take too much of the credit upon yourself—and neither should you take all the blame," the goddess added in a softer tone. "What was done, was destined. It is your part to see that the People find their way to this hard-won homeland."

 

Starleaf nodded. "I will plant the Tree of Souls on Evermeet with my own hands," she vowed.

 

"Not so," Corellon cautioned her. "Guard it and protect it, yes. But the Tree of Souls has another purpose. A time may come when elves wish to return to the mainland, or perhaps, they may have no choice but to return. Within this tree lies the power of High Magic, a power that even now is fading from the land. In time, only on Evermeet will such magic be cast. The souls within this tree, and those of the elves yet unborn who will yet chose to enter it rather than return to Arvandor, will grant the People a second chance upon Faerun. Once this tree is planted it will never be moved again. The power within will enable the elves to cast High Magic within the shadow of the tree, which will grow in size and power with each year that passes.

 

"Remember what I have told you, and pass on my words to he who takes the guardianship of the tree from your hands," Corellon told her sternly. "The Tree of Souls must not be taken lightly, or planted on a whim."

 

"I will remember," the elf promised. And as she did, she silently prayed that the need to plant the Tree of Souls would never come at all. Her heart and soul sang with the vision that was Evermeet, and the sure knowledge that nothing this side of Arvandor could take its place in the hearts of the People.

 

 

10

 

Returning Home

 

 

Despite the ravages that occurred during the Sundering, the elven People slowly rebuilt. In time, they once again thrived upon the many and varied lands of what had once been Faerun. The old name remained, but it came to describe only one expanse of land.

 

Hundreds of elven communities were lost in the chaos and destruction of the Sundering; others were changed forever. The forest community of Sharlarion, however, was one of the few that survived nearly complete. These fortunate elves increased their number and spread into the surrounding forests and hills and lowlands, in time creating a kingdom which was known as Aryvandaar.

 

It was an age of powerful magic, and throughout Aryvandaar the towers of the High Magi dotted the land like buttercups upon a summer meadow. Many were the great works of magic that these mighty Circles created: weapons of war, statues of the gods that sang to greet the dawn or that danced in the starlight, gems that stored mighty spells. Perhaps the most powerful of all these works were the magical gates that linked the mainland communities to Evermeet.

 

Although most of the elves were content with their homes, Evermeet was always on their minds. The island homeland formed an enormous part of their elven identity, as well as each elf's personal destiny. "May you see Evermeet," was an oft-spoken blessing, for it wished the recipient a long mortal life which would end at a time and place of that elf's choice. Indeed, many elves made a pilgrimage to the elven island before answering the call to Arvandor.

 

Despite the importance of Evermeet in the hearts and minds of the People, the Council of Elders decreed that the time for actual settlement of the island had not yet come. There were other concerns that kept the elves fully occupied on the mainland.

 

At this time, the Gold elves wielded most of the power in Aryvandaar, though seats on the Council of Elders were held by worthy members of all the fair races of elves. These Gold rulers were proud of their kingdom's accomplishments, and eager to expand their territory so that the wonders of Aryvandaar could be increased and shared. What began as a grand vision, however, slowly degenerated into waves of brutal and bitter warfare.

 

For centuries, the Crown Wars ravaged the land from the northernmost forests to the sun-baked southlands. So vast and widespread was the destruction that Aryvandaar's continued glory—indeed, her very existence—began to seem less than certain.

 

Compounding the elves' woes, a new and powerful goddess had risen to power in the south, a dark goddess who seemed intent upon the utter destruction of the fair races of elves. On her command, the Ilythiiri began to press north in large numbers, creeping through tunnels and fissures that the Sundering had created in the depths beneath the surface world.

 

As the Ilythiiri moved into the heart of the hills and mountains, they were met with resistance by many of the dwarven clans who for untold centuries had labored to create order out of the chaos of their underground world. Long and bitter were the battles between these races, and many of the dwarves were slain. Some of the stout folk fled north, and sought a new home in the hills of Aryvandaar. These the elves welcomed, albeit cautiously. Aryvandaar had been badly weakened, and even dwarven allies were preferred to the fate that many of the Elders feared—the utter destruction of the ancient kingdom.

 

The time was ripe for Evermeet to become a realm, one to which the elves could escape if need be, a haven that they could readily defend. And so the Council chose several noble clans to begin the settlement of their elven homeland.

 

As all anticipated, House Durothil was the first to be selected. The lot fell also to two other powerful Gold elf clans, Evanara and Alenuath. Of the Moon elf houses, Amarillis, Moonflower, and Le'Quelle were chosen. It was the task of each individual house so honored to select those members who would go to Evermeet and those who would remain behind. Nor were these nobles the only elves so chosen: Each family brought servants from among the common folk, warriors taken for the most part from less-powerful clans who owed fealty to the great noble families, and a number of elves who possessed skills in various necessary crafts. Cobblers, coopers, gem smiths and hawk masters were as important to the island kingdom as the nobles who would govern and protect them.

 

After much debate, it was decided that Evermeet would be governed by its own Council of Elders. Each of the noble clans would have two seats. The head of the council was to be Keishara Amarillis, a High Mage who was accounted a worthy descendant of the famous Silver elf hero. Although many of the Gold elf families were disappointed that this honor did not fall to their house, most agreed that Keishara was the most suitable choice for the role of High Counselor—and the one most likely to be accepted by Gold and Silver elves alike.

 

On the appointed day, a large band of settlers—some two hundred elves—headed westward. They traveled lightly, taking necessities for the journey, as well as a number of unique, inherited items such as lore books, magical weapons, and fine musical instruments. The resources of Evermeet would provide that which they needed, and the elves were confident that they would soon build a city to rival any in Aryvandaar. Indeed, the island was not utterly devoid of elven presence. Wild elves had lived on Evermeet since the day of its creation, many centuries past. According to the priests of the Seldarine, the gods had ordained that it should be so. The forest elves would live in harmony with the land—and also attune the Weave to a uniquely elven cadence. The island required the presence of Gold and Silver elves to refine and structure that magic.

 

From one new moon to the next, the chosen elves traveled westward. Finally they heard the murmur of the sea, and they made their way south along a high and rock-strewn coast until a single enormous mountain loomed before them.

 

In this place, a plain nestled between two forests, was a fine deep water harbor. Sea-going elves often put in to land here, mooring their ships to undersea piers with the help of the merfolk and the Sea elves that lived along the coast.

 

The Aryvandaar elves looked with great interest upon the seaport. Unlike the cities of Aryvandaar, there was little to distinguish this place from the wilderness surrounding it. Indeed, for a wanderer who happened upon this place, there was nothing to see at all. But among the elves there were some who had traveled to the spring faire, and who knew how quickly a teeming marketplace could spring up in the shadow of the mountain. An ancient dwarven kingdom honeycombed the mountain, and halflings lived in the hills and forests beyond. Even a few human traders from the primitive tribes to the far north ventured down to the harbor marketplace when the worst of the ice flows melted from the sea. But it was high summer now, and even the ships that would carry them to Evermeet were hidden away in the sea caves to the south.

 

The elves didn't have to wait long for the first vessel to break the endless blue of sea and sky. Rolim Durothil watched with awe as the elven ship swept into the harbor. It was a graceful vessel fashioned of light wood, with a prow shaped like the head of a gigantic swan. The twin sails rose like wings over the curve of the rail; indeed the entire ship seemed poised as if to take flight.

 

Rolim's heart quickened with excitement. This was the adventure, the opportunity, for which he had waited his entire life. He was the third son of the Durothil patriarch, and as such did not stand to inherit position and power in Aryvandaar. What he possessed, he had earned for himself with his sword and by his wits. As a warrior, a survivor of the terrible Crown Wars, he was not without wealth and honor of his own. And now he who had fought to expand the kingdom of Aryvandaar was on his way to carving his own place from the wilderness of Evermeet.

 

Ever since the choice for High Councilor had been announced, Rolim had been quietly furious that this honor had fallen to a Silver elf. This title should have been his by right of birth and by virtue of his talents and accomplishments. A Durothil should rule in Evermeet. In Rolim's mind, it was that simple.

 

He cast a sidelong glance at Keishara Amarillis, who stood with her hands on her narrow hips and her eyes fixed on the approaching ship. She was not young—perhaps in her fifth or sixth century of life—but she was comely enough: slender and tall, with a direct gray-eyed gaze and the fiery locks characteristic of her clan. Hers were cropped short, and they clustered about her finely molded head in a tight cap of bright curls.

 

As he appraised the High Councilor, Rolim began to consider a possible side route to power. He had enjoyed in his travels the company of an impressive number of fair maidens, and he prided himself upon his skill in the fine art of wenching. This over-ripe beauty would fall into his hand all the faster for the time she'd spent upon the vine. She would be easy enough to conquer, and then to influence...

 

As if drawn by his musings, Keishara turned and looked directly into his intense and unguarded stare. Rolim suspected that his thoughts were written all too clearly upon his face. Well, little harm done, he thought, brushing aside his momentary touch of embarrassment. Although he had not meant to start his campaign for Keishara's favor in so blunt a manner, perhaps it was well to give her something to ponder during the sea voyage.

 

But Keishara did not flush or simper, as did the village maids whom Rolim had charmed by the score. If anything, she looked mildly amused.

 

Amused!

 

At that moment, Rolim Durothil declared war—a private and hidden war, but none the less serious. No elf of the Amarillis clan would lord it over him with impunity. He had thought to allow Keishara to retain her place of honor; that was simply out of the question now. He would rule, by whatever means came most readily to hand.

 

A tentative hand upon his sleeve shattered his dark thoughts. Rolim spun and stared down at his espoused wife, a nondescript, mouse-colored creature from some lesser branch of the Moonflower clan. She was a High Mage, supposedly, and since Rolim had little magical aptitude of his own to pass down to his children, his father had suggested that he take a wife whose strengths complimented his own. Even though she was not of the Gold elf people, Rolim had agreed because there was a certain wisdom in what his father suggested. If the Durothils of Evermeet were to grow in power and influence, they would need to breed magic into the line. Even so, if Rolim had seen the wench before he signed the papers of betrothal, he might not have been so quick to reach for the quill.

 

"My lord Rolim," she began in an apologetic tone.

 

"What is it, my lady—" He broke off suddenly, for his future wife's name nimbly avoided his tongue, so absorbed was he with his ambitions.

 

The elf woman flushed but did not comment on this lack. "Our escort is ready to ferry us to the ship," she said, gesturing to a small boat and the two Sea elves who awaited them at the oars.

 

Rolim's future wife smiled at the strange-looking elf who helped them aboard. "Our thanks, brother. You and your kinfolk are kind to see the People of Aryvandaar to our new home. If ever there comes a time when you require the services of a land-dwelling elf, please call upon our family. This is Rolim Durothil, who is to be my lord husband. And I," she said with a pointed glance at the Gold elf, "am the mage Ava Moonflower."

 

A smile twitched at the corner of Rolim's lips. Perhaps the wife foisted upon him by clan and council was not quite the mouse she appeared to be. Certainly she seemed to charm the Sea-elven servants. And she was not entirely without appeal, with her enormous grave, gray eyes and the abundant hair that was not quite silver, but rather the soft gray hue of a kitten's fur. Nor did she appear quite so colorless, with that slight flush of pique resting upon her cheeks.

 

Perhaps, mused Rolim Durothil as he gazed upon his future wife, this sea journey would be more interesting than he had anticipated.

 

The voyage to Evermeet was long, but the first handful of days passed by without incident. In fact, the elves of Aryvandaar had little to do. The ship was ably crewed by a large number of Sea elves who took turns tending the onboard duties and scouting ahead for danger in the sea below. Only the ship's captain was a land-dwelling elf, a Moon elf commoner whose name Rolim never bothered to learn.

 

For the most part, the future patriarch of Evermeet's Durothil clan spent his time making subtle liaisons with the other Gold elven families. These nobles devoted endless hours to drawing up plans for the city that they would build. Since Rolim's clan was the most prominent house among them, the others seemed willing enough to accept his lead and fall in line with his suggestions.

 

What Ava Moonflower did during the day, Rolim did not know or particularly care. At night, she took her revery belowdecks, in the company of the female travelers. There was little privacy aboard the ship, and Durothil knew that their time as husband and wife would not begin until they reached the elven homeland. What he did not expect, however, was the impatience he was beginning to feel whenever he caught a glimpse of his future wife's tiny form. Nor did he expect Ava's pale, serious face to intrude upon his revery and sweeten to find its way into his dreams of ambition and glory.

 

Late one night, Rolim was pulled from his revery by an unusual break in the lulling rhythm of the ship's movement. He sat upright, noting that although the ship pitched restlessly, there were no sounds of rain or wind.

 

Curious, he snatched up his cloak and sword belt, then climbed the ladder to the deck. A few tense and watchful deckhands stood at the rails, their faces grave and their webbed hands clutching ready weapons. A few of the Aryvandaar elves, still heavy-eyed from sleep, clustered together. It occurred to Rolim that these represented all the High Magi aboard ship. Among them was Ava, her mass of pale hair untied and blowing about her like a small storm cloud.

 

Rolim hurried over to the mages. He took his future wife's arm and drew her away from the others. "What is happening?" he demanded.

 

"The ship is under attack," she murmured, paying him scant heed. Her troubled gaze lingered upon the grim-faced spellcasters. "We stand ready to form a Circle if need be. You must let me return to the others—I am Center."

 

"You?"

 

The disbelief in his voice brought a flame to Ava's cheeks. Her chin lifted as she met his eyes. "Yes, I. This would not be my first battle, though I am certain that also surprises you." Her ire faded instantly and her attention returned to the cluster of mages. "Alas, the magi can attack only if the enemy breaks though our defenses and strikes the ship itself! I only wish there was something we could do now to aid the sea folk who fight for us!"

 

"They are paid well for their efforts," Rolim noted. "And it seems to me there is little you could do to affect a battle you cannot see. Save your magic to aid those for whom it was intended, Lady Mage, and don't waste time or thought upon those two-legged fish."

 

Ava's eyes kindled with wrath. Her hand flashed forward and slapped Rolim squarely in the face with a force that snapped his head painfully to one side. Before he could think better of it, Rolim's warrior instincts took over and he struck back.

 

He never got close. The tiny female caught his wrist with both hands and spoke a single terse word. The next instant, Rolim, a seasoned Gold elf warrior, was flat on his back on the hard wood of the deck and his future wife's knee was pressed hard at his throat.

 

"The next words you say against any of the People will be the last you utter," Ava informed him in a soft, even tone. "All of those upon this ship were chosen by lot, under the eyes of the gods, and we each have a purpose and a destiny. But you will not bring the turmoil and destruction of the Crown Wars to this new land, this I swear before all the gods! If you try, I will fight you at every turn, my lord."

 

And then she was gone. Rolim scrambled to his feet and scanned the deck with furtive eyes. No one, it seemed, had noticed his humiliation at the hands of his as-yet unclaimed wife. All were intent upon dragging aboard the wounded Sea elves who had floated to the moonlit surface.

 

Near the far rail, Ava knelt at the side of a dying female warrior, her pale hands trying in vain to hold together the gaping folds of the sea woman's death wound. Tears spilled down the mage's cheeks, but her voice was strong and calming as she sang the ancient prayers that guided the warrior's soul to Arvandor, the home of all elves, just as Evermeet must be.

 

As Rolim watched the Silver elf mage at her selfless, hearfelt labors, he felt a sudden wrenching pain, as if something broke free from around his heart. Warmth and light flowed in, bringing a peace that he had never known he lacked.

 

Without hesitation, Rolim reached into his bag for the healing potion that every warrior of Aryvandaar carried, his last and personal salvation in the event of battle gone awry. He went to Ava and handed her the priceless vial.

 

"For our people," he said softly.

 

For just an instant, her gaze clung to his, but in that brief time Rolim saw in her gray eyes the measure of what he might become. It was a very different image from that which his ambitions had fashioned, but he was nonetheless content.

 

And at that moment, though many days would yet pass before he walked upon its shores, Rolim Durothil truly came home to Evermeet.

 

 

The goddess Lloth was in a quandary. For centuries she had preyed upon the elves of Aber-toril, and had found it to be an occupation much to her liking.

 

Lloth seldom remembered that she had once called the god Vhaeraun her son. Now he was merely a rival. As for Eilistraee, Lloth never wasted a thought upon the girl one way or another. The Dark Maiden lived much as she had in long-ago Arvandor: She'd taken to the forest, where by all accounts she squandered her scant store of godly magic in aid of lost travelers and elven hunters.

 

Lloth preferred the burgeoning cities of southern Faerun, where turmoil and intrigue bred like lice. She was also growing fond of the dark and twisted tunnels that seemed fashioned for the express purpose of hoarding treasure, staging ambush, and engaging in other delightful clandestine activities. After the dulling sameness of the Abyss, the simmering conflict between the Ilythiiri and Corellon's fair-skinned children was a bracing tonic. The Crown Wars had been a source of dark joy. All things considered, Lloth had not been as happy for millennia.

 

She was of mixed mind, however, concerning the matter of the Sundering. The mortal body of Ka'Narlist had been swept away by the terrible floods, and the wondrous city of Atorrnash reduced to legend. Lloth did not mourn the loss of her consort, for she had long ago tired of him. Males, she concluded, were not worth the bother. She did not regret the loss of Ka'Narlist's person, though she rued the loss of that wondrous vest of Sea elven magic. There was the possibility that Ka'Narlist had managed to capture his own essence in one of his dark pearls. Lloth did not like the idea that the final fate of the malevolent, ambitious entity was not altogether certain.

 

Other effects of the Sundering also brought mixed emotions to the goddess. On the one hand, it had destroyed many of her worshipers. Yet for each of her elves that had tumbled into the sea or been crushed by falling stone, at least three of Vhaeraun's followers had perished. Lloth reigned supreme among the dark elves' gods.

 

Thus was victory won on any battlefield, as Lloth knew well. The last few centuries had left her with considerable expertise in the art and practice of elven warfare.

 

So intriguing was this new hobby that she had abandoned altogether her ancient craft of weaving enchanted tapestries. Living beings made more interesting threads for her looms, and the ever changing webs they wove were infinitely more appealing to the dark goddess than the well-ordered destinies she had once fashioned and fostered for her dark elven charges. Her time in the Abyss had given her a taste for chaos.

 

She was not pleased, however, about this matter of an elven homeland. Lloth might be barred from Arvandor, but there was no place upon this world that she would suffer to remain beyond the grasping hands of her dark followers.

 

Yet try as she might, Lloth could devise no way to strike against the island. She herself was barred from Evermeet as surely as she was from Arvandor; the same magical barriers that protected the Sacred Forest of Olympus from evil gods also warded the elven island.

 

This angered Lloth, for it was but one more insult to come from the hands of Corellon Larethian. The dark goddess vowed that, in time, she would find a way to destroy Evermeet. This goal became a focus, a receptacle for all her ancient animosity toward the elven god.

 

There were, however, other matters that absorbed Lloth's immediate attention. The dark elves had been driven below ground. There was new territory to conquer, new magic to learn. The descendants of Ka'Narlist and Lloth were now called drow, and they were as evil and fearsome a people as Lloth could have desired. In time, they would become powerful enough to emerge from their dark world and reclaim the whole of Aber-toril. In time, the drow would bring about the utter destruction of Corellon's children upon the mainland. When that was accomplished, when the elves of Evermeet stood utterly alone, it would be a small matter for her followers to invade and overtake the island, no matter how enchanted it might be. Yes, Lloth had much to accomplish in the warrens and caverns of the great Underdark.

 

In the meanwhile, Lloth needed an agent to work on her behalf on the surface world. The Ilythiiri raiders who had pressed into the far north often brought back tales of barbarian tribes of humans—fearful warriors who worshiped totem beasts—and oftentimes of the Beast Lord who commanded them. It seemed that Malar, her old acquaintance, was beginning to enjoy a bright turn of fortune.

 

Perhaps, Lloth mused, it was time to pay a visit to the Great Hunter, and to light once again the fire of vengeance in his heart. Let him spend his strength and his efforts on bedeviling the "elven homeland" while she occupied herself elsewhere.

 

And why not? Provided that she prodded him in the right direction, Malar was resourceful enough to do justice to the task. Lloth had little fear that the Beast Lord would complete the task and steal her moment of vengeance, for though he had grown in cunning and strength since his attack upon Corellon, Malar definitely lacked the power to challenge alone the forces of the Seldarine.

 

Even so, a few centuries of torment at the hands ol tne Beast Lord would make the eventual conquest of Evermeet all the easier.

 

 

3rd day of Ches, 1368 DR

 

To Danilo Thann, beloved nephew of my beloved Khelben, does Laeral Silverhand Arunsun send fond greetings.

 

Dan, my love! Thank you for your letter, and for the wonderfully silly ballad you composed for me. You will never know how gladly I welcomed every foolish line, for my visit to Evermeet has not otherwise been filled with mirth.

 

Do not misunderstand me—I consider myself fortunate to be among the handful of humans allowed on Evermeet. You know, of course, of my long-standing friendship with Evermeet's queen. Nor am I the only one of the Seven Sisters who has had dealings with Queen Amlaruil. My sister Dove's son was fostered here, kept safe from the many who would harm him to strike at Dove. He was raised in the ways of the elven folk, and is now living in peace and honor as a ranger in the wilds near Shadowdale. What you do not know is that my own child also found a haven on the elven island.

 

I wish I could have seen your face as you read that last line. You did not know I had a child, I suppose. Very few people do. I thought it would be better so. What I did not anticipate—and should have—was that my wild and beautiful Maura would find a way to thrust herself into general knowledge. That she did so unwittingly makes the situation all the more difficult.

 

But I am putting the tail before the teeth. I shall start again, this time at the beginning.

 

You know my story better than most. For many years I traveled with the adventuring party known as the Nine. We found an artifact, the Crown of Horns, and I in my pride decided that my powers of will and magic were sufficient to counter the evil I sensed within it. I wore the Crown, and it claimed me as its own. Years went by, terrible years during which I lost Laeral and became the Wild Woman, the Witch of the North. I remember little of those years, which in many ways is a blessing. But there were things lost to me that I would give centuries of my life to recall. One of these is Maura.

 

I do not remember her begetting. I cannot tell you who her father was, nor do I remember the months that I carried her. Of her birth, I can tell you little more. All I recall is a terrible storm outside my cave, a soothing voice nearby, and the fierce piping cries of a baby whose face I cannot recall. My sister Dove found me in travail and tended me, and then took the babe to Evermeet for protection and fosterage. In my terrible madness, I could not care for her, and no one on Faerun dared to do so. No one knew what influence the Crown of Horns might have had on this poor babe. Such was the legacy I gave my child.

 

But Maura thrived on Evermeet. Any taint she might have taken from the evil artifact was cleansed by the healing magic of that fair land. She grew up fierce and wild as any forest elf, yet always and entirely her own person. Among the elves, she stands out like a scarlet rose among snowdrops—vivid and startling in her bright beauty. She did not inherit the silver hair common to me and my sisters; she is as dark as I am fair, and even more exotic in appearance. There is no telling what Maura's sire might have been. Her pale bronze skin and lavish curves suggest southern blood, her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hint at elven ancestry—although that she might as well have gotten from me. She has, I blush to confess, a bit of my own vanity and love of drama. Maura is often flamboyant in her ways and her dress. Other than her love of swordcraft—she is a notable fighter—she has little in common with the elves. In fact, I had traveled to Evermeet this time with the thought to bring her home at last, now that she is a woman grown.

 

To my dismay, I found that my restless and impatient Maura no longer wished to leave. She has fallen in love with an elf—an elf whose name and rank decree that nothing but grief can come of their union. You have come to know this elf of late through your letters: Lamruil, Prince of Evermeet.

 

I need not tell you how ill content Queen Amlaruil is with this news. You know full well that she lost her best-loved daughter, Amnestria, to the love of a human. For many years, the queen refused to acknowledge the existence of Amnestria's half-elven daughter. Even now, while she privately speaks well of Arilyn, she does not and cannot acknowledge your wife as her kin, nor can she allow her upon the elven island. The elves of Evermeet, particularly the Gold elves, would see Arilyn's presence as a terrible threat to all they hold dear—all the more so, for her royal blood. Do not for a moment think that my personal friendship with the queen, or my status as Elf-friend, or even the fact that I am numbered among the Chosen of Mystra make my daughter an acceptable mate for a prince of Evermeet. Maura would bear him half-elven children, and that would be accounted a tragedy.

 

In your letter, you asked me to give you some insight into why the elves shun those of mixed blood. This is a difficult question, but the answer says much about the nature and the minds of Evermeet's elves.

 

You love a half-elf, so you have seen something of the grief common to these beings who live between two worlds. So also have I, for my mother was half-elven. So desperate was she for a place of her own, that she joyfully surrendered herself as avatar to Mystra that her children might become—like herself—something both more and less than human.

 

I am accepted on Evermeet, but only because my elven heritage is not apparent—lost, perhaps, beneath the mantle of Chosen of Mystra. For love of me, Amlaruil accepted Dove's child and mine in fosterage, but only with the understanding that their elven blood would be a matter of deepest secrecy.

 

Let me tell you the story of how Amlaruil and I first met. It was in revery—that elven state of wakeful dreaming that is more restful than sleep. As a child, I often went into revery. It was not so much a nap for me as an adventure. Even then, the silver fires of Mystra burned bright within me, and I was able to do things that no fully human mage can accomplish. In revery, I often slipped into the Weave itself, and I sensed the beings who make up its warp and weft. Most of these were elven, of course—human mages use the Weave, but elves are a part of it in ways that no human can fully understand.

 

On one such journey, I met Amlaruil. Now, understand that Amlaruil's tie to the Seldarine is as strong as mine to Mystra. She was surprised to meet a child in revery, astonished that one so young possessed so much power. We met often after that first time, and became closer than sisters before ever we set eyes upon each other.

 

I remember my first trip to Evermeet. Amlaruil sent me an elfrune, a ring that would enable me to travel to Evermeet with a thought. I will never forget the look of utter befuddlement on her face when she beheld me for the first time.

 

You know what she saw—a girl taller than most men but slight of form, with silver-green eyes and an abundance of silver hair. I am different from most women, perhaps, but I am recognizably a human woman. For the first and last time, I saw the future Queen of All Elves utterly lose her composure.

 

"You are N'Tel-Quess!" she blurted out, charmingly referring to me as a "Not Person."

 

"I am Laeral," I responded. In my mind, that was all and enough. I am as I am, and cannot be otherwise.

 

She nodded as if she heard and dimly followed my unspoken reasoning. "But you travel the Weave. You speak Elvish!"

 

"My mother was half-elven," I told her, by way of explanation for the latter feat.

 

Her face immediately arranged itself into a polite mask. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said with great feeling.

 

I burst out laughing—I could not help it. Her tone was precisely that used by any well-bred person when told of some personal tragedy or family disgrace. Thus did Amlaruil regard half-elves. She still does, I suppose, and in this she is typical of Evermeet's elves.

 

What, then, am I to do with my Maura? She is as stubborn and headstrong as I am, which does not bode well for her—or for that matter, for Evermeet. What will occur if Lamruil should be called upon to take the throne? None of the elves, especially the Gold elf clans, would accept Maura as queen. In truth, they would be unlikely to accept Lamruil with or without Maura. Like his love, he is "too human."

 

Dan, my friend, I fear greatly for the People of Evermeet. Their splendid isolation is a delicate and fragile thing. Like you, I fear that it cannot long endure. Change is inexorable, inevitable. Given time, the waves will wear away the strongest rock. The elves, for all their wisdom and despite their long lives, do not fully understand this. Perhaps a union between Lamruil and Maura would force them to see what is all around them.

 

Or perhaps it will only speed what many elves fear most of all—the end of Evermeet, the twilight of the elves.

 

Oh, Dan, I wish I knew. And while I'm in the business of wishing, I wish I could have kept my baby Maura, I wish I had raised her myself away from this seemingly inviolate but fragile island. I wish that I had taken her away sooner, before her wild beauty caught Lamruil's eye. And I wish you were here, to tell me stories and sing me silly songs and make me laugh as you always do.

 

I fear that my letter has done little to answer your questions. But perhaps my story has cast some light on the character of Evermeet. The elves created Evermeet because they wish to remain what they are. But their history is a constant struggle between those who cling to ancient traditions, and those whose bold innovations have shaped Evermeet. Even the monarchy was once a radical idea. There are still those who consider it so, and who secretly long for the return of the ancient council. Thus it continues—the battle between constancy and change.

 

You will see this thread running through all of elven history. Nowhere is it more apparent than on Evermeet. And nowhere is it more flagrantly confronted than in the person of a half-elf. Start there, then, to understand the nature of this land.

 

I will return to Waterdeep soon—without Maura, I fear. In the meanwhile, kiss your uncle Khelben for me. It will irritate him, and thus amuse you. This, I hope, will help put you in the proper frame of mind to sing me into better humor. Speaking of which, be prepared to do your best—and your worst. After my time here, I feel in dire need of a rousing rendition of "Sune and the Satyr." Indeed, I could emulate the revels described therein, and not fully blunt the edge of my current despair. Tell me—do you think Khelben might be persuaded to participate? No, I didn't think so either.

 

With fondest regards, Laeral

 

 

Prelude

 

The Fall of Twilight

 

13th day of Mirtul, 1369 DR

 

 

Prince Lamruil sauntered into the vast hall where his mother held court, well aware of the many pairs of disapproving eyes that followed him.

 

He had not been long in Evermeet—at Queen Amlaruil's insistence, he had taken to the mainland on an adventure for which he had little heart. The time away had been more eventful, the task given him more compelling, than he had anticipated. Yet his mother's hope—that Lamruil's absence might dim the passion that he shared with Maura—had been unrealized. At least the queen had the satisfaction of knowing that she had kept word of it from spreading. The gods would bear witness that Lamruil had done enough already to scandalize the court.

 

Since his arrival he had managed to further tarnish his reputation. Seemingly at whim, he'd decided to take up the study of magic. As a student at the Towers, he had managed to antagonize a number of powerful Gold elf families. What none of these nobles realized was that he did so deliberately. In his travels, Lamruil had observed that some Gold elves on the mainland held onto traditional, extremist views. He thought it wise to make some effort to ferret out any on Evermeet that might be allied with these extremists. Those who seemed most offended by the Moon elf prince's antics were likely suspects and worthy of closer, more subtle scrutiny.

 

Queen Amlaruil knew of Lamruil's tactics, and she did not approve. For that matter, she approved of little that Lamruil had to do or say these days. He knew with grim certainly that she would not relish the news that he must give her, and that she would forbid him from doing what he had already decided must be done.

 

The prince strode to the dais and went down on one knee before his mother's throne.

 

"You are seldom in council, my son," she said in a voice that betrayed no hint of the curiosity that Lamruil knew she must feel. "Have you given up on the study of magic, then, to learn something of governance?"

 

"Not exactly," he said ruefully. "In truth, I must speak to you on a personal matter. A matter of considerable delicacy."

 

He saw the almost imperceptible flicker of her eyelids—for the wondrously controlled Amlaruil, that was tantamount to a shriek of panic. She clearly thought, as he meant her to, that this had to do with his forbidden relationship with Maura.

 

The queen politely but briskly cleared the council room. When they were alone, she turned a grim face to her errant son.

 

"Please do not tell me that another half-elven bastard is about to sully the Moonflower line," she said coldly.

 

"That would be a tragedy indeed," he returned with equal warmth. "May the gods bear witness to the fortitude with which we endure the disgrace brought upon us by half-breed bastards—such as my sister's daughter Arilyn."

 

Amlaruil sighed. She and Lamruil had sparred over this matter many times. Never had they come to a resolution. Never would they.

 

"Amnestria's daughter has served the People well," the queen admitted. "That does not give you license to increase the number of half-elves!"

 

"Content yourself, then, in knowing that I have not," Lamruil said grimly. "The news I bear you is of far more serious nature."

 

The queen's expression hinted that she doubted this.

 

In response, Lamruil handed her a letter. "This is from Arilyn's husband, whom I call not only nephew, but friend. He is human, but he writes the language well."

 

Amlaruil skimmed the elegant Elvish script. She looked up sharply. "Kymil Nimesin has slipped away from his Harper jailers! How is that possible?"

 

Lamruil grimaced. "Kymil Nimesin has powerful allies, unexpected ones. The sages say that Lloth and Malar once made an alliance against the People, though they hate each other nearly as much as they hate the children of Corellon. It appears that they might have done so again."

 

The queen's face paled to the color of new snow. "He should have been tried on Evermeet. This would never have happened!"

 

"On this, we agree."

 

"Where is he now?"

 

"The Harpers do not know."

 

"Has he elven allies still? You have been looking for them under every bed in Evermeet."

 

"A few, although none on Evermeet—at least, none that I could pinpoint with certainty," Lamruil said. "On the mainland, definitely. There are also other troubling alliances. In the past, Kymil has done business with the Zhentarim. He struck a bargain with the wizards of Thay. To what end, we can only imagine."

 

"Yes," the queen said softly. Her eyes filled with a sorrow and loss that the passing of decades had not diminished. "I know all too well the cost of Kymil Nimesin's ambitions."

 

The young prince felt suddenly awkward in the presence of such immense grief. But he placed his hands on her shoulders and met her eyes. "I will find the traitor, this I swear. One way or another, I will bring him back to Evermeet to stand trial."

 

A chill passed through Amlaruil at these words, like a portent of heartache yet to come. "How will you find him when the Harpers cannot?"

 

The prince smiled grimly. "I know Kymil Nimesin. I know what he needs, and where he must go to find it. Ambitions like his need the support of vast wealth. He and I took a fortune that rivals a red dragon's hoard from the elven ruins. Kymil has hidden it, and will try to retrieve it. I will go there and confront him."

 

"He might expect you to do this."

 

"Of course he will," Lamruil agreed. "And he will set a trap for me. He will not expect that I will anticipate this trap, and walk into it of my own will."

 

Amlaruil stared at her son. "Why would you do this?"

 

"Kymil Nimesin has little regard for any Silver elf, and holds me in utter contempt," the prince said candidly. "He expects me to run bumbling into his traps in defense of queen and country. What he does not expect, however, is a bumbling prince who offers himself as an ally."

 

A small, startled cry escaped from the queen's mouth. "You cannot!"

 

Lamruil winced. "Have you so little regard for me? I would not truly ally myself with the traitor who killed my father and my sister."

 

"I never thought you would. Yet I cannot allow this ruse. If you do this thing, you will never rule Evermeet after me!"

 

"I never expected to," Lamruil retorted. "Ilyrana is the heir to the throne, and well loved by the people. Since I am not burdened by their regard, I am free to take such risks on their behalf. Let me learn of Kymil's plan, and undo it from within. I must," he said earnestly when the queen began to protest. "Do you think that a single elf, however powerful, would dare act alone? If he endeavors to complete the task he has started, be assured that it will be with the backing of powerful allies. And such alliances often set complex events in motion—events that might well continue with or without Kymil Nimesin. No, I think we must know more."

 

The queen's eyes searched his face as if she might find there an argument to refute his words. Finally she sighed, defeated.

 

"There is truth, even wisdom, in what you say. Yet I wish there was another who could take up this task!"

 

"You fear I am not suited?"

 

"No," she said softly, sadly. "You alone on all of Evermeet are suited for it. No one else has your knowledge of our foe. It is a terrible burden, I think."

 

"But a needed one," he said.

 

Amlaruil was silent for a long moment. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, it is."

 

"I may go, then?" he said in surprise.

 

To his astonishment, a genuine if somewhat wry smile curved his mother's lips. "Would you have stayed, had I forbidden you?"

 

"No," he admitted.

 

The queen laughed briefly, then her face turned wistful. "You are much like your sister, Amnestria. I did not trust her to do what was best for herself and her People. Permit me to learn from my mistakes."

 

The implication of her words moved Lamruil deeply. "Are you saying that you trust me in this?"

 

Amlaruil looked surprised. "Of course I do. Did you not know that? I have always trusted you. Despite your mischief, there is much of your father in you."

 

The prince dropped to one knee and took both of her hands in his. "Then trust me until the end of this, I beg you. Trust me when your councilors tell you that you should not, when your own senses insist that you must not!"

 

"Bring Kymil Nimesin to me," the queen said softly.

 

Lamruil nodded softly. The seeming non sequitur told him that his mother understood what he intended to do. The risk was enormous, and Amlaruil was no doubt right in saying that even if he succeeded, he would never be accepted as Evermeet's king. In his mind, that was a small enough price to pay.

 

"By your leave, then, I will begin."

 

The queen nodded, then reached out and framed her youngest child's face with her hands. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "You are Zaor's son indeed," she said softly. "What a king you would have made!"

 

"With Maura as my queen?" he teased. Amlaruil grimaced. "I suppose you could not resist that; even so, you should have made an effort. Go then, and make your farewells."

 

The young prince rose and bowed deeply. He turned and strode from the palace. He claimed his moon-horse from the groom who held its bridle, and then rode swiftly toward Ruith. In the forests just south of that fortress city he would find his love.

 

No other place on Evermeet suited Maura as well. Maura had been fostered by the forest elves of Eagle Hills, but now that she was a grown woman, she lived alone in the forested peninsula north of Leuthilspar, in a small chamber in the heart of a living tree. The rocky coast, the curtain of snow-crested mountains that framed the forest, echoed the wildness of her own nature. The proximity of Ruith, a fortress city that housed the heart of the elven military, provided her with sparring partners when she wished a match—which was often. Even in a society of champions, she was seldom defeated.

 

She looked up expectantly as Lamruil entered her home. "What have you learned? Can you stop this foolish charade among the city folk yet?"

 

During his time in Leuthilspar, Lamruil had insinuated himself into the confidences of certain Gold elves and given them to know that he was impatient to assume the throne. He had implied that he was eager to see his mother step down, hinted that he might be willing to facilitate the same end by other means. Maura knew these things, and had railed against them in terms that made Amlaruil's disapproval seem a pale thing.

 

"I learned a few things," he said vaguely. "At the moment, they are of minor importance. I must leave Evermeet at once."

 

He showed her the letter, and told her what he planned to do. He steeled himself for the girl's fury. Maura did not disappoint him.

 

"Why must you take the trouble and risk to bring this Kymil Nimesin back to Evermeet? Kill him outright, and have done with it. By all the gods—he killed your father! The right of vengeance is yours."

 

For a moment, Lamruil was honestly tempted to do as she urged. "But I am not the only one who has suffered loss. This matter is for the People to judge. I can best serve them by delivering the traitor to their judgment. I must also bide my time, and do what I can to uncover other threats to the throne."

 

The elf maid's glare faded, pushed aside by dawning apprehension. "You're starting to sound like a king," she said, her tone wavering between jest and worry.

 

A huge grin split Lamruil's face. "There are several thousand elves on this island who would be happy to dispute that with you," he said without rancor.

 

"Still, it is possible."

 

Lamruil shrugged, puzzled by her uncharacteristic gravity. "I am a prince. In theory, yes, it is possible. But Ilyrana is much loved, and will probably take the throne. Even if she declines, it is likely that an elf from another noble house would be chosen over an untried youth."

 

"Perhaps to act as regent in your stead," Maura persisted. "The result would be delayed, but it would be the same for all that!"

 

The prince took her hands in his. "What is this about, really?"

 

Her eyes were fierce when they met his; even so, twin tears glistened in their emerald depths. "A king will need a queen. A proper queen."

 

For a moment, Lamruil was at a loss for words. He knew the truth behind Maura's words; even if the nobles accepted him as their king, they would certainly insist that he take one of their own to reign with him. They would not countenance a wild thing like Maura on the throne of Evermeet, not even if she were fully elven. Nor, he realized, would she be long content in the moonstone palace of Leuthilspar.

 

The prince longed to wipe the silvery tracks from Maura's cheeks, but he knew with the sure wisdom of love that she would not thank him for acknowledging her tears.

 

"Wait here," he said suddenly. Turning from her, he ducked out of the tree and sprinted off into the forest. In moments he found what he sought—wild laurel. A few flowers still clung to the plant, filling the air with a heady fragrance. He cut a few of the woody vines with his knife and hurriedly fashioned them into a circlet. The result fell far short of symmetry, but it would serve.

 

He returned to the girl and placed the crown of leaves and flowers on her head. "You are the queen of my heart," he said softly. "While you live, I will take no other."

 

"And why should you? You've already taken all the others," she retorted.

 

Lamruil lifted one brow. "Is it seemly to bring up my youthful exploits on this our wedding day? I think not—we are long past such discussions."

 

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "I will not wed you."

 

Lamruil grinned. Placing a finger under her chin, he raised her stubborn face to his. "Too late," he said lightly. "You just did."

 

"But—"

 

The elf stilled her protests with a kiss. Maura stiffened but did not pull away. After a moment her arms twined around his neck, and she returned his kiss with an urgency that bordered on desperation.

 

Finally the prince eased out of her embrace. "It is past time. I must go."

 

Maura nodded. She walked with him to the forest's edge. She watched as he descended the steep path to the harbor, and kept watching until Lamruil's ship was little more than a golden dot on the far horizon. She watched with eyes misted with grief born not only of loss, but understanding.

 

For the first time, she realized the truth of her love. Lamruil was meant to be a king—it was a role he was growing into, though in ways that few of Evermeet's elves might recognize. The day would come when he would be ready. And on that day, she would lose him to Evermeet.

 

"Long live Queen Amlaruil," she whispered with a fervor that had nothing to do with her genuine respect for Evermeet's monarch.

 

More than two years passed before Lamruil returned to the island. To the elves, this was no great time, but every day, every moment of it weighed heavily upon Maura. She had a task to do. She and Lamruil were one in their purpose, and she did her part with a determination that bemused her elven instructors. She threw herself into sword practice with a fervor that rivaled that of the most dedicated bladesinger. She did so, not only because she was a fighter at heart and because she loved the dance of battle, but because she, unlike the elves, fully expected a war to come.

 

And so she trained for it, watched for it, lived for it. Even so, when it came, she was unprepared.

 

They were all unprepared, the proud elves of Evermeet. The threat came from the place they least expected, from an enemy that all assumed was too far removed for concern. From Below they came—the unthinkable. The drow.

 

The attack came on the northernmost shore of the island. Throughout the long autumn night, the tunnels below the ancient ruins of Craulnober Keep echoed with the clash of weapons and the faint, instinctive cries that even the bravest of warriors could not hold back when a blade sank home. But the sounds had faded into grim silence, sure proof that the first battle was nearly over.

 

Was nearly lost.

 

Reinforcements came from Ruith's Lightspear Keep and from the lonely strongholds of the Eagle Hills. Maura came with them, to stand beside the elves who had raised and trained her.

 

The defenders struggled to regain the ancient castle from the dark-elven invaders that poured forth like seething, deadly lava from the depths of the stone. The approach of dawn brought a turn in the tide of battle, for as the drow began to fall back in anticipation of the coming light, the elves managed to breach the ancient curtain wall of the keep. With renewed ferocity, the elves took the battle to the dark elves who held the castle. Many dark bodies lay amid the fallen of Evermeet. With the coming of dawn, the surviving drow withdrew to the tunnels from whence they had come.

 

Too soon, the proud elves counted their victory. Following the command of Shonassir Durothil, they pursued. Nearly all the elves abandoned their positions on the cliffs and hills beyond the castle and came into the abandoned keep, determined to pursue and destroy the invaders.

 

No sooner had they entered the walls, however, than the doors swung shut behind them and sealed so completely that gates and walls seemed to have been melted into a single, unbroken expanse of stone.

 

A cloud of darkness settled over the castle, shrouding the elven fighters in an impenetrable mist and a chilling aura of pure evil.

 

Into this darkness the drow returned, silent and invisible, armed with terrible weapons and confusing magic. Here and there pinpricks of red light darted about like malevolent will’o'wisps. Those elves who took these to be the drow's heat-sensitive eyes found, in giving chase, that they followed an illusion. Their reward was invariably an invisible dagger in the spine, and a faint burst of mocking laughter—music as beautiful and terrible as the faerie bells of the Unseelie courts.

 

The elves fought on amid the darkness and despair. They fought bravely and well, but they died all the same.

 

A few of the warriors managed to find their way into the tunnels. These pursued the drow back toward the island of Tilrith, through tunnels that hundreds of years of dark elven work and magic had reopened.

 

And in the darkness they died, for in the tunnels beyond the keep lurked the only two creatures that were perhaps even more feared than the drow. One of these, a beautiful dark elven female, shrieked with elation each time one of Corellon Larethian's children perished.

 

Lloth had come at last to Evermeet. Though magic barred her from setting foot upon the island itself, the tunnels below were hers to command.

 

No such strictures were placed upon the creature with her, a terrible thing that resembled nothing so much as a gigantic, three-legged cockroach. The monster surged toward the keep. Its probing snout swept along the tunnel walls, and the ironhard maw churned busily as the creature chiseled through the stone to make way for its bulk. Nearly as large as a dragon and covered with impenetrable armor, the monster was one that was all too familiar to many of Evermeet's elves.

 

Malar's creature, the Ityak-Ortheel, had followed Lloth from her home on the Abyss. Finally, the Beastlord and the Queen of Spiders had found a way to unite their strengths in a strike against Evermeet. The dreaded elf-eater needed a gate from the Abyss and Lloth had been able to provide one.

 

The elf-eater surged upward, exploding from the stone floor of the keep. Scores of tentacles probed the air, testing for the airborne taste of nearby prey. The creature was relentless, devouring both living and dead elves until the keep was silent and empty. With the speed of a galloping horse, the creature plunged into the ancient wall. The stone shattered, sending a cloud of dust and rubble hurtling out of the blackness that encircled the castle and threatened to engulf all of Evermeet.

 

One warrior survived—the only one whose blood was not sufficiently elven to call to the elf-eater. Alone, Maura watched in despair as the elf-eater turned away from the keep, heading south with a linear intensity that even a crow's flight could not match. Maura could guess all too well its destination, and its intent.

 

The monster was heading for Corellon's grave, the nearest elven settlement—not coincidentally, one of the seats of Evermeet's power. Many of the most powerful clerics came together to study and pray, to cast clerical magic to aid the People here and now, and to contemplate the wonders that awaited them in the realms of Arvandor. There, amid the temples of Corellon's Grove, the elf-eater would once again feed.

 

This was horror enough, but one more thought added the extra measure of urgency needed to tear Maura from her exhaustion and despair: The Princess Ilyrana, a priestess of the goddess Angharradh, made her home in the Grove.

 

A shrilling cry burst from Maura's lips, a shriek that to human ears would have been indistinguishable from an eagle's call. Maura, who had been raised among the Eagle Hills, knew of the giant birds and had heard the elves call them many times. Never had she summoned them, never had she ridden one. She wasn't certain she could succeed at either. It would not be the first time, however, that an untried warrior had ridden such a steed into battle.

 

She had not long to wait. An enormous bird dropped from the sky with unnerving silence, coming to rest on a pile of rubble that the elf-eater had left behind when it crashed through the keep. The eagle was as large as a war-horse, and beautiful. The slanting rays of the rising sun turned its feathers to gold. It was also fearsome, with a hooked beak larger than Maura's head, and talons the size of the dagger she carried.

 

The bird cocked its head in inquisition. "Who you? What want?" it demanded in a shrill voice.

 

Maura's chin came up proudly. "I am Maura of Evermeet, wife to Prince Lamruil and daughter by marriage to King Zaor. Take me into battle, as your ancestor once took the king. Evermeet's need is greater now than it was then—greater than ever it was."

 

"You not elf," the eagle observed.

 

"No. But then, neither are you. Do you fight less fiercely for your home, because of this?"

 

Her answer seemed to please the bird. The eagle spread its wings, until the golden feathers nearly spanned the bloodstained courtyard.

 

"Up, up," it urged her impatiently. "Get on back, hold tight. We show how fierce we the not-elves fight for Evermeet home!"

 

 

Book Three

 

Constancy and Change

 

 

"Some legends say that Evermeet is a piece of Arvandor descended to the mortal world. Some consider it a bridge between the worlds, a place where the line between the mortal and the divine blurs. To some, it is merely a prize to be won. But this much is clear to all: from the day of its creation, Evermeet became the ancient homeland of Faerun's People. This is not a simple matter to understand or explain, but when has truth ever been utterly devoid of paradox?"

 

—Excerpt from a letter from Elasha Evanara,

 

Priestess of Labelas, Keeper of the Queen's Library

 

 

11

 

Inviolate

 

 

Malar the Beast Lord considered no wild lands beyond his claim. The deep forests of Evermeet should have been his to rove, and all living things upon the island should have been his rightful prey. If elves were numbered among this prey, so much the better.

 

But, the bestial god was barred from the elven retreat. A net of powerful magic covered the island and kept the gods of the anti-Seldarine from making a direct attack upon Corellon Larethian's children. And this time, there was no treacherous elven goddess to open the way for him from within.

 

No, Malar mused, he could not reach the island. But perhaps there were others who could. Once, long ago, a coalition had come near to defeating the elven pantheon in their own sacred forest. Why could he not gather a similar group of gods and direct the combined efforts of their mortal followers? Once and for all, he would crush the mortal elves whose very existence reminded him of his humiliating defeat at the hands of Corellon.

 

The sea, Malar reasoned, was his first barrier to success, and a formidable one. For the most part his own followers were orcs, humans who gloried in the hunt, and beings from a score or so of the other predatory races. These hunters lived upon the mainlands and did not have the ships or the skills needed to cross the vast watery divide. In time, perhaps, he could find godly and mortal allies who could remedy this lack. But it seemed clear to him that the first, logical step in building such an alliance would be to enlist the powers and the creatures of the depths.

 

And so the Beast Lord sought out a remote and rocky island, far to the north of Evermeet, and took on his bestial avatar form. He sent out a summons and then he settled down upon a high and ragged cliff to wait.

 

The sea winds that swept the island quickened to gale force as the sky darkened to indigo. Waves reared up and dashed themselves against the cliff below, growing higher and higher until the Beast Lord's black fur was drenched by the salty spray. Just as Malar thought the angry waters might engulf the island, and his avatar with it, a massive wave rose straight up from the sea and formed itself into a beautiful, wild-eyed woman.

 

The goddess Umberlee loomed over the island, quivering in the crest of that great, dangerously undulating wave. "What do you want of me, land dweller?" she demanded in a thrumming voice.

 

Malar eyed the sea goddess with a touch of apprehension. Her powers and her watery domain were far beyond his experience or understanding. Yet it might be that he could find a common ground, or at least some blandishment that would catch her fancy and mold her purposes to his. This would not be without risks. By all accounts, the goddess of the waves was dangerously capricious.

 

"I come in peace, Umberlee, and I bring warning. The elves travel your oceans to settle the island of Evermeet," he began.

 

Lightning sizzled forth from Umberlee's eyes, and the gnarled beach plum bushes on Malar's left exploded into flame. "You presume to summon me, and then speak as if I know not what happens within my own domain?" she raged. "What does it matter if the elves travel the seas, as long as they pay proper tribute to me?"

 

"But they do not merely travel your seas. They think to rule the ocean, with Evermeet as their base," Malar persisted. "This I know from a goddess of the elves."

 

The water goddess retreated a little as if in surprise, and a different sort of wrath kindled in her eyes. "No one rules the oceans but Umberlee!"

 

"The seagoing elves do you homage, that is true, but they revere only their own gods. Even the Sea elves do not worship you, but rather Deep Sashales."

 

"That is the way of things," the goddess said in a sullen voice. "Many are the creatures that inhabit my oceans, and all worship their own gods. But all they who live within or venture upon the waves pay tribute to me, and they say prayers to win my forbearance and stave off my wrath!"

 

"Do the elves who now live upon Evermeet so entreat you, or are they too content with the protection of their own gods?" Malar asked slyly. "Aerdrie Faenya has cast about the island wardings such that no ill wind or weather can ever destroy the island. The elves of the Seldarine believe that Evermeet is beyond the power wielded by other gods. And yet, surely there is something that Umberlee, one of the great Gods of Fury, can do to thwart these presumptuous elves!"

 

Malar watched as this shot sank home, as Lloth had predicted it would. He would have preferred to bring Umberlee into line with brute force and rending talons, but, as the dark goddess had pointed out, there comes a time in many a hunt when the prey must be herded to a place of the hunter's choice.

 

"There are many things I could do," the proud goddess boasted. "If there is chaos enough in the seas surrounding Evermeet, the elves will come to know and revere my power!"

 

The Beast Lord listened as Umberlee began to spin her plans for the Coral Kingdom, a vast and disparate group of enemies who would trouble the elves whenever they set sail. Some of these creatures could even venture onto the island itself, for the protection of the elven gods did not— could not—exclude all the followers of other gods. For such revenge as Malar had in mind, mortal beings would do what the gods could not.

 

And as he listened to the sea goddess boast and plot, Malar marveled at the cunning of Lloth, who had so deftly planned how to bring Umberlee's power against their elven foe. He tried not to dwell overlong on the end results of the dark goddess's last campaign, or on his dawning suspicion that he himself might have been as handily manipulated, both then and now, as was Umberlee.

 

Such dark thoughts served him best when they were turned into anger—a fine and killing rage that Malar could focus utterly against Corellon's children.

 

In the years that followed, large communities of strange and evil creatures began to gather in the warm waters surrounding Evermeet.

 

The scrags were the worst of them. These ten-foot, seagoing trolls were nearly impossible to defeat, for they healed themselves of battle wounds with astonishing speed. They could easily swarm over an elven ship, regenerating as fast as the elves could cut them down. Setting them aflame only ensured the destruction of the ship, and left the elven crew at the mercy of those scrags still in the sea. Few elves survived the swim through troll-infested waters. Travel between the mainland and Evermeet grew exceedingly perilous, and more ships were lost than made harbor.

 

In addition to the marine trolls were the sahuagin, dark and hideous fish-men who were driven by a soul-deep enmity toward Sea elves. Many were the battles that raged beneath the waves between these ancient enemies. In a few short decades, the peaceful Sea elves who lived near Evermeet, who guided elven ships and scouted ahead for dangers that hid beneath the waves, were nearly destroyed.

 

It was a dark time for the elves of Evermeet. Cut off from the powerful kingdom of Aryvandaar except for the Tower-sent messages, bereft of the formidable protective barrier once provided by the Sea elves, they found to their horror that their sacred homeland was not, as they had fondly hoped, impervious to attack.

 

Nearly four hundred years had passed since the first ships from Aryvandaar had sailed past the mountainous island outpost known as Sumbrar and into the deep, sheltering bay on Evermeet's southern shore. Here, at the mouth of the Ardulith river, they had founded Leuthilspar, "Forest Home."

 

From gem and crystal, from living stone and mighty ancient trees, the High Magi of Aryvandaar brought forth in the forests of Evermeet a city to rival any in the kingdoms of Faerun. These buildings of Leuthilspar grew from the land itself, increasing in size as the years passed to accommodate the growing clans who dwelt within, as well as the settlers who came later. Even in its infancy, Leuthilspar was a city of incomparable beauty. Spiraling towers leaped toward the sky like graceful dancers, and even the common roadways were fashioned from gems coaxed from the hidden depths.

 

Although complete harmony among the elven nobility remained an elusive goal, Keishara Amarillis served well in bringing the contentious factions together. And when the time came for her to answer the call to Arvandor, Rolim Durothil accepted the duty of High Councilor with a humility and resolve that would have astonished those who had known him as a proud Gold elven warrior of Aryvandaar.

 

Rolim and his wife, the Silver elf mage Ava Moonflower, set an example for harmony among the clans and the races of elves. Theirs was an unusually large family, and their children increased both the Durothil and the Moonflower clans. Those children who took after their Gold elf patriarch were counted among the Durothils; those who favored their mother added to the numbers and power of the Moonflower clan.

 

It was a wise solution and a fine example—on this the elves of Leuthilspar were quick to agree. Few of them, however, followed in the High Councilor's footsteps. Unions between the various races of elves had become increasingly rare, and although relationships among the Gold, Silver and wild elves remained amicable, the various peoples began to draw off from each other.

 

As time passed, some of the more adventurous elves left Leuthilspar and spread across the island. A few of these travelers mingled with the wild elves that lived in the deep forest, and in doing so gave themselves over fully to a life lived in harmony with the sacred island. But most settled on the broad, fertile plains in the northwest to raise crops or train their fleet and nimble war-horses.

 

In the far north of the island were rugged, heavily forested hills and mountains. Wresting a living from this wild northern land was not an easy task, but it was a task well suited to the energies of the burgeoning Craulnober clan.

 

Theirs was a minor noble family, brought to Evermeet as honor guards in service to their liege clan, Moonflower. At the head of the family was Allannia Craulnober, a warrior who, despite her diminutive size, had survived the battles of the Crown Wars and had fought back the waves of monsters, orcs and dark elven raiders that threatened Aryvandaar. She knew all too well the horrors of battle, and the need for constant vigilance.

 

The growing complacency of Leuthilspar's elves, their utter certainty that Evermeet was an inviolate haven, were matters of deep concern to Allannia. She therefore chose a land that would test her strength, and would demand that she keep both her wits and her sword's edge sharp. Amid the struggles of life in their wild holdings, Allannia raised her children to be warriors.

 

Chief among these was Darthoridan, her eldest son. He was unusually tall for an elf, and more powerfully built than most of his kin. When he was yet a boy, still growing toward his full height, Allannia foresaw that no sword in the Craulnober armory would suit his strength. She sent word to the finest swordsmith in Leuthilspar, and had him create a broadsword of a size and weight seldom seen among the elves. Sea-Riven she called it, for reasons that were not entirely known to her.