As he grew toward adulthood, Darthoridan became increasingly restless. He spent his days in endless training, drilling with his warrior mother and his brothers and sisters for a battle that never came. Though he did not complain, he felt a keen sense of frustration over the singular focus of life in Craulnober Keep. Yes, he and his kin were becoming fine warriors, even by elven standards. Even so, the young elf longed to be so much more. He could not rid himself of the growing premonition that skill with the sword was not enough.

 

One day, when his hours of practice were over, Darthoridan sheathed Sea-Riven and wandered down to the shore. He spent many hours there, ignoring the dull aches in his battle-weary muscles as he challenged his strength and agility by climbing the sheer cliffs. More often, though, he merely sat and gazed out to sea, reliving the stories brought by travelers from the wondrous cities to the south.

 

This evening his mood was especially pensive, for his mother had decreed that the time was coming soon when he should travel to Leuthilspar and find a wife. This news was not at all unpleasing to the young elf, but he found that the prospect of transforming dream into reality was a bit daunting.

 

After all, the Craulnober clan holdings were isolated, and their keep was a simple tower of stone lifted from the rocky cliffs. Darthoridan knew little of the customs or culture of the great city. In her concern for a strong defense, Allannia Craulnober had focused on nothing else, and had taught her children nothing but the art of warfare. Darthoridan was hardly prepared for life in Leuthilspar; he did not feel confident in his ability to court and win a suitable bride.

 

If Allannia had her way, he mused with mingled frustration and wry humor, then he would simply march into the elven city, challenge a likely looking battle-maid to a match, defeat her, and carry her off to the north.

 

Darthoridan sighed. Ridiculous though this image might be, in truth, this was all he was equipped to do.

 

When he was head of the clan it would be otherwise, vowed the young warrior. If he had only his own will to consult, his chosen wife would be a lady of high station and exquisite grace. She would teach their children what he could not. In addition, all Craulnober younglings would be sent into fosterage with noble families in the south, were they could learn the arts and the magical sciences which flourished in Leuthilspar. They would learn to master the magic that was their heritage—and the results would far outstrip the few experimental spells that Darthoridan managed to fashion in his scant spare time.

 

Despite the dreams that swirled pleasantly through his thoughts, Darthoridan remained alert to his surroundings. He noted a small blotch of darkness in an oncoming wave. He squinted against the light of the setting sun as he tried to discern its nature. As he watched, the surging waves tossed the unresisting object back and forth, as if toying with it before casting it upon the shore.

 

With a sigh, Darthoridan rose and began the descent down the cliff to the water's edge. He had little doubt as to what he would find. From time to time, the torn body of a Sea elf washed up on the northern shore, a grim testament to the wars that raged beneath the waves. It would not be the first time he had given the mortal body of a sea-brother to the cleansing flames, and sung the prayers that sped the soul to Arvandor. At moments like this, he found that he did not regret his hours of training with sword and spear.

 

As he suspected, yet another victim of the Coral Kingdom lay in shallow waters, rocked gently by the waves. Darthoridan waded out and lifted the dead elf in his arms, bearing her with honor to her place of final rest. As he stacked the stones and gathered driftwood for the bier, he tried not to dwell upon the Sea elf's garish wounds, long since bled white and washed clean by the seas, or on how young the little warrior had been when she died.

 

"If the battle is not over before the children must fight, then it is already lost," Darthoridan whispered, quoting his warrior mother. And as he worked, as he watched the flames leap up to greet the setting sun, he prayed that this young warrior's fate would not be shared by his youngest brothers and sisters, or by the children he himself hoped to sire. Yet if calm did not come to the seas, how long could they avoid a similar fate?

 

When at last the fire burned low, Darthoridan turned away and began to walk along the shore, hoping that the soothing rhythm of the waves would calm his troubled heart. The receding tide left the shore strewn with the sea's debris: broken shells, bits and pieces of ships lost at sea, long rubbery strands of kelp. Here and there small creatures scuttled for the sea, or busily tucked themselves in for the night in the tidal pools that dotted the shore.

 

As Darthoridan skirted one of these pools, he noted the odd shape of a piece of mossy driftwood that thrust up from the water. It was shaped rather like an enormous, hideous nose, right down to the flaring nostrils. He looked closer, squinting into the tangle of seaweed that floated on the surface of the pool.

 

A silent alarm sounded in his mind, and his hand went to the hilt of Sea-Riven. But before he could draw the sword, the tidal pool exploded with a salt-laden spray and a roar like that of an enraged sea lion bull.

 

From the waters leaped a scrag. Darthoridan stared in horrified awe as the creature rose to its full height. Nearly ten feet tall, the sea troll was armored by thick, gray-and-green mottled hide as well as an odd chain mail vest fashioned of shells. The strange armor clanked ominously as the scrag lifted its massive hands for the attack.

 

Darthoridan instinctively leaped back. Tall though he was, his arm and sword combined could never match the scag's reach. The creature's knuckles nearly dragged the ground, and though it held no weapons, its talons were formidable. If the scrag got hold of him, it would shred him as it had no doubt slain the Sea elf girl.

 

The elf raised Sea-Riven into a defensive position and waited for the first attack. Darting forward, the scrag took a mighty, openhanded swipe at the elf. Darthoridan ducked under the blow, spinning away from the troll. He lifted the sword high overhead and brought it down hard on the troll's spindly, still-outstretched arm. The elven blade bit hard and deep, and the severed forearm fell to lie twitching on the sand.

 

Darthoridan dashed the spray of ichor from his face and lifted Sea-Riven again. Just in time—the scrag came on in a frenzy, its massive jaws clicking as it gibbered with pain and rage. Its one remaining hand lunged for the elf's throat. Darthoridan managed to slap the creature's hand out wide, then he dived between the scrag's legs and rolled up onto his feet.

 

Marshalling all his strength, the young elf gripped his sword as he might hold an axe, screaming out an incoherent battle cry as he swung at the back of the creature's leg.

 

Sea-Riven connected hard; the scrag toppled and went down. Now it was Darthoridan's turn at frenzy—his sword flashed in the dying light as it rose and fell again and again. As he chopped his foe into bits, he kicked or flung the gory pieces as far as his strength allowed. The troll could heal itself, but the task would be longer and more difficult if it had to gather its scattered parts.

 

A sudden pressure on his foot distracted the elf from his grisly work. He glanced down just as the scrag's severed hand clamped around his ankle. As the talons dug through his boot and deep into his flesh, Darthoridan shouted another battle cry, striving to focus his pain and fear into something he could use. He thrust the blade of Sea-Riven between himself and the disembodied hand. Driving the point deep into the wet sand, he pushed with all his strength. His sword cut into the scrag's palm, but the hand stubbornly refused to let go. Worse, one of the talons began to wriggle its way toward the tendon at the back of the elf's leg.

 

Desperate now, Darthoridan threw himself face forward onto the sand. With his free foot, he kicked out at the sword to keep it from falling with him. The sword remained upright, and finally pried the scrag's fingers from his boot.

 

Immediately the disembodied hand skittered away, running sideways on its fingers like some ghastly variety of crab. The hand groped blindly as it sought the limb from which it had been severed.

 

Breathing hard, the elf rolled to his feet and yanked his sword from the sand. He ignored the burning pain in his leg, and forced aside the impulse to avenge his wounds by chasing down the offending hand and crushing it underfoot. But it was painfully clear that this action would gain him nothing. Even now, several pieces of the scrag had managed to regroup, and gray-green flesh grew rapidly to fill in the missing parts. Worse, new creatures were starting to form from some of the more widely scattered parts. This was an eventuality that Darthoridan had not foreseen. Soon he would be facing an army of scrags.

 

He cast a quick glance at the distant towers of Craulnober Keep, plainly visible from the shore. Within the walls, preparing to enjoy the evening meal and a quiet hour or two before revery, were all his kin. His younger siblings were not helpless, certainly, but they were no more prepared for this sort of battle than he. And though Darthoridan was no expert on scrags, he suspected that trolls of any kind would not be sated by the death of a single elf.

 

Darthoridan turned and sprinted for the Sea elf's bier. He snatched up a still-glowing piece of driftwood and raced back to the burgeoning army of scrag. The elf skidded to a stop beyond the original creature's reach and snatched a small bag from his sword belt. It was time to test both his fledgling magic and his courage.

 

The elf dumped the contents of the bag into his hand. The discarded shells of several sea snails rolled out. Darthoridan had filled the cavity with volatile oil, and then sealed the opening with a thin layer of waxy ambergris. A thin linen wick poked out of the shell, awaiting the touch of fire. Darthoridan had played with these small, flaming missiles as a child, but never once had he tested the effect of the magic he'd placed upon the oil. For all he knew, he would set himself aflame long before he managed to toss one of the shells at the scrags.

 

So be it, he decided grimly. If that happened, he would charge the scrags and set them afire with his own hands. As long as he kept the creatures from ravaging the Craulnober lands, it would be a death well earned. He thrust the wick of the first shell into the driftwood flame.

 

The roar of light and heat and power sent Darthoridan hurtling back. He landed on his backside, hard enough to send a numbing surge of pain through his limbs that almost, but not quite, masked the searing pain in his hands.

 

Even so, he was content, for the explosive weapon had done its work well enough. The young elf watched with grim satisfaction as flaming trolls parts rolled in dying anguish on the sands. He rose to his feet, stalking the burning shore in grim determination that every vestige of his enemy be destroyed. Again and again the elf lit and tossed the flaming shells, until all that was left of the invading scrag were scattered spots of grease and soot upon the sands.

 

Later that night, Allannia Craulnober was oddly silent as she bandaged her son's blistered hands and poured healing potion into a glass of spiced wine for him to drink. Darthoridan, who was accustomed to maternal instructions delivered with a relentless vehemence that a harpy might envy, found his mother's mood disconcerting.

 

When he was certain that he would soon burst from the strain of waiting for his mother's verbal assault to begin, the elven matriarch finally spoke her mind.

 

"They will come again, these sea trolls. All our strength of arms will avail us nothing."

 

Her quiet, thoughtful tone surprised Darthoridan. "Fire will destroy them," he reminded her.

 

"But if they come in great numbers? Unless we are willing to risk burning down the keep and laying waste the forest and moorlands, we could not raise fire enough to hold back a large assault."

 

The elven warrior squared her shoulders and met her son's troubled gaze. "Go to Leuthilspar with the coming of dawn, and stay long enough to learn all those things that you long to know, the things that you try so hard to pretend mean little to you. And when you seek a wife, consider the wisdom of bringing north someone who can teach magic to the Craulnober young," she said. "It is time we learned new ways."

 

Allannia smiled faintly at the thunderstruck expression on her son's face. "Close your mouth, my son. A good warrior sees much—and knows when the time has come to share the field of battle."

 

In the years to come, attacks upon the elves by the scrags and their sahuagin allies grew more frequent and vicious. But leaders emerged among the people of Evermeet, including Darthoridan Craulnober and his wife Anarzee Moonflower, the daughter of High Counselor Rolim Durothil.

 

Although Anarzee was not a High Mage but a priestess of Deep Sashales, she possessed a considerable grasp of magic. She also had a keen knowledge of the ways of the sea, and the creatures who made their home beneath the waves. The priestess and warrior combined their skills to raise and train an army of elves to protect the shores with swords and magic.

 

But as time passed, Anarzee felt that this was not enough. If the elves were ever to prevail over the Coral Kingdom, they must take the battle to the seas. This burden fell to her, for there was no elf on all of Evermeet who could bear it as well.

 

All her life, Anarzee had felt a special affinity for the sea. She felt its rhythms as surely as most elves responded to the cycles of moonlight. Even her appearance echoed the sea, for her hair was a rare shade of deep blue, and her eyes a changeful blue-green. As a child, her favorite playground had been the white sands of Siiluth, and her playmates had been the sea birds, selkie pups, and the Sea elf children who lived near its shores.

 

But now most of those children were dead. Even Anarzee's mentor, an ancient Sea-elven priest of Deep Sashales, had been slain in the endless battles with the sea trolls. The selkies, too, had disappeared, seeking the islands to the distant north where they might raise their young in safety. Thus it was that Anarzee, though she was born into a large and vibrant clan, and though the wonders of Leuthilspar surrounded her, was at a young age left very much alone.

 

The coming of the young warrior Darthoridan Craulnober to Leuthilspar had changed all that. He and Anarzee had fallen in love nearly at first sight. She went with him gladly to the northern coast, and together they fought the creatures who had destroyed her world, and who threatened his. With the birth of Seanchai, their firstborn son, the two worlds became one and the same for Anarzee. She would do whatever was needed to ensure her child's future.

 

Anarzee's eyes clung to the towers of Craulnober Keep as her ship left the safety of the docks. It was bitterly difficult to leave Seanchai, although he was weaned now and just starting to toddle. If the choice was entirely hers to make, she would spend every moment of his too-brief childhood delighting in her babe, singing him the songs he loved and telling the tales that kindled dreams in his eyes. After all, in just a few short decades, he would be a child no more!

 

The elf woman sighed, taking some comfort from the knowledge that Darthoridan remained behind in command of the shore's army. Anarzee had insisted that he remain. If this first strike should fail, the clan—and especially their son—must be protected from the certain retaliation meted out by the Coral Kingdom.

 

Even if her mission were to fail, it would not be the last. The ship upon which Anarzee stood was the first of many. Specially designed to resist scrag attack, armed with powerful elven magic and over a hundred fighters, it would strike a decisive blow against the sea trolls and begin the process of reclaiming the waves. Anarzee ran her hand along the thin, translucent tube that ran the length of the ship's rail. The scrags might notice that this ship was different, but they would never suspect what lay in store for them. And how could they know? Never before had an elven ship deliberately set itself aflame.

 

The ship was still within sight of the coast when the first of the scrags struck. The vessel jolted to a stop, then began to pitch and rock as powerful, unseen hands scrambled at its underside.

 

Anarzee knew all too well what the creatures were doing. Scrags would board when necessary, but they preferred to scuttle a ship by tearing holes in its hull, thereby forcing the elves into the water. But the outside of this ship was perfectly smooth and very hard—it had been grown from crystal and provided no handholds for the scrags to grasp. Nor could the creatures break through it with their teeth or talons. They would be forced to fight, and on elven terms.

 

A small, grim smile tightened Anarzees lips, and she nodded first to the small Circle of High Magi, then to the archers who stood waiting by blazing fireboxes. "It won't be long," she murmured. "Begin chanting the spell. Light the arrows... now!”

 

Even as she spoke, several pairs of scaly hands clutched at the rail. The archers dipped their arrows into the fire and took aim. Anarzee lifted one hand, her eyes intent upon the swarming scrags. Timing was crucial—if the archers fired too soon, the creatures would simply fall back into the water, where the flames would die and the creatures' arrow-torn flesh regenerate.

 

The sea trolls moved fast, and they often moved together like enormous, schooling fish. In the span of two heartbeats, all the scrags had swarmed aboard. It was a large hunting party—over a score of full-grown trolls.

 

Anarzee dropped her hand and shrieked, "Now!"

 

Flaming arrows streaked toward the scrags, sending them staggering back toward the side of the ship. Some of the creatures began to climb the rail, instinctively heading for the safety of the waves.

 

But at that moment the magi's spell was unleashed. With a sound that suggested a hundred goblets shattering against a wall, the crystal vials embedded in the rail exploded and released the fluid that bubbled within. A wall of flame leapt up all along the ship's rail, barring the scrags' escape and setting alight many of those that had escaped the archers flaming arrows.

 

Shrieking and flailing, the burning trolls instinctively darted away from the eldritch flame behind them. Elven warriors rushed forward to meet them, armed with protective spells against the heat and flame. They fought with grim fury, determined that no scrag would break through their line. Slowly, inexorably, they pressed the dying trolls back into the flames.

 

It seemed to Anarzee that the fire and the battle raged for hours, but she knew it could not truly be so. Trolls burned quickly. Behind the warrior elves, the Circle continued chanting the magic that sustained both the fighters and the flame—and that kept the fire from breaking past the wall of elven warriors. Sooner than Anarzee had dared to hope possible, the battle neared its end.

 

It was then that the sahuagin came. The first one to board the ship did so not of its own will or power. Shrieking and thrashing, a sahuagin tumbled through the wall of flame—no doubt having been picked up bodily by its comrades and thrown through the magic fire. Like a living bombard, the sahuagin hurtled toward the elven defenders.

 

A startled elf managed to bring his sword up in time, impaling the creature as it fell. But the weight of the fish-man brought the elf down, too.

 

The sahuagin might have been unwilling at first, but it knew what to do now. Claws and teeth scrabbled and tore at the pinned elf's face and neck. By the time the elves pulled the creature off their brother, the sahuagin horde had claimed its first kill.

 

Other sahuagin followed in like manner, tossed up onto the ship by the unseen creatures beyond and falling like hideous hail upon the deck. Some of them survived the fall, and the battle began anew.

 

Anarzee spun toward the magi. "The flame wall slows them down, but it cannot keep them out! What else can you do?"

 

The white-haired male who served as Center pondered briefly. "We can heat the water right around the ship itself to scalding. What creatures this does not kill, it will drive off."

 

She frowned. "And the ship?"

 

"It will be at risk," the mage admitted. "The heat will make the crystal hull more brittle and fragile. But even if the sahuagin were to understand this weakness, they could not stand the heat long enough to take advantage."

 

"Do it," Anarzee said tersely, for there was little time to waste in speech. A sahuagin had broken through the fighting. Its black, webbed feet slapped the deck as it raced toward the magi's Circle.

 

The priestess snatched a harpoon from the weapon rack and braced it against her hip. At the last moment, the creature veered away, slashing out with its claws—not at the armed elf woman, but at one of the chanting magi.

 

Anarzee leaped at the sahuagin, thrusting out with all her strength. The harpoon sank home. She dropped the weapon at once, sickened by the dying creature's screams, which were echoed by a hellish chorus of the scalded sahuagin in the seething sea beyond.

 

For a moment, it all threatened to overwhelm her—the scent of burning troll flesh, the slick wash of elven blood and vile ichor upon the crystal deck, the pervasive cloud of evil that surrounded the sea creatures. The priestess closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

 

In that brief moment, all was lost.

 

The dying sahuagin seized the nearest weapon—the still-smoldering, severed hand of a troll that lay on the deck nearby. With all its remaining strength, the sahuagin hurled the hand at the white-haired mage who acted as Center to the circle of spellcasters. The sahuagin's aim was true, and the scrag hand clamped around the elf's throat in a killing grip. Smoking black talons sought the vessels of life, and plunged in deep.

 

When the Center died, the magic of the Circle simply dissolved. The wall of fire that warded the ship flared high, then disappeared. The billowing steam from the magically heated sea wafted off to become just one more fleecy cloud in a summer sky. In the sudden silence, the elven magi looked about, dazed and disoriented, as they struggled to emerge from the disrupted spell.

 

At that moment a dull, clinking thud resounded through the ship, and then another. The sahuagin survivors had returned to renew the fight. The sea was too vast, too alive with movement, for the heated water to remain a barrier for long.

 

The captain of the elven fighters ran to Anarzee's side. "The sahuagin have metal weapons," she said urgently. "It is possible that they will break through the weakened hull. If we are thrown into the water, we can do nothing to fight them."

 

"Not as we are," the priestess agreed.

 

In a few terse words, she told the captain of the desperate plan that was forming in her mind. The warrior nodded her agreement without hesitation, and hastened off to prepare her fighters for what might befall them. This ship and the elves who sailed it were doomed, but if the gods were willing, they might yet serve the People of Evermeet.

 

Anarzee fell to her knees and began the most earnest prayer of her life. She called upon Deep Sashales, not for deliverance, but for transformation.

 

As she prayed, the air around her seemed to change, to become unnaturally thin and dry. Her hearing took on new dimensions, as well. She could hear the terrible thuds and crackles that bespoke the shattering hull, and the whoops and cackling laughter of the triumphant sahuagin. But mingled with this airborne cacophony were other, subtler and more distant sounds—sounds from beneath the waves themselves.

 

As water lapped over the deck and soaked the kneeling priestess's robe, Anarzee found that she did not fear the depths, or the creatures in them. She leaped to her feet and ripped off the encumbering garments of a land-dwelling elf. Snatching up a harpoon with a newly webbed hand, the priestess—now a Sea elf—leaped from the dying ship and into the waves.

 

All around her, the new-made Sea elves fell upon the sahuagin with weapons and magic. This wonder cheered the priestess and sped her in battle, for naturally born Sea elves did not possess magic! This was what was needed to defeat the Coral Kingdom. Why had she not seen it sooner? As magic-wielded sea People, what a force they would be for Evermeet's defense!

 

Only much later, when the sahuagin were defeated and driven away, when the exhilaration of battle slipped away and the euphoria of victory faded, did the full realization of her sacrifice strike home.

 

Anarzee did not regret what she had done, nor did any of the other elves cast recriminations upon her. All were pledged to protect Evermeet, and they were resigned to do so as fate decreed.

 

But oh, what she had lost!

 

That evening, the Sea-elven priestess slipped from the waves to walk silently upon the rocky shores under Craulnober Keep. As she anticipated, her Darthoridan was there, gazing out to sea with eyes glazed with grief. She stopped several paces from him, and softly called his name.

 

He started and whirled to face her, his hand on the hilt of his mighty sword. For a long moment, he merely stared. Puzzlement, then startled realization, then dawning horror came over his face.

 

Anarzee understood all these emotions. She was not surprised that her love did not recognize her at first, for she was much changed. Her body, always slender, had become streamlined and reed-thin, and her once-white skin was now mottled with swirls of blue and green. The sides of her neck were slashed by several lines of gills, and her fingers and toes were longer and connected by delicate webbing. Even her magnificent sapphire-colored hair was not what it once had been, and she wore the blue-and-green strands plaited tightly into a single braid. Only her sea green eyes had remained constant.

 

"The raising of Iumathiashae has begun," she said softly, for it was their custom to speak of matters of warfare and governance before turning to their personal concerns. "A great Sea-elven city will stand between the Coral Kingdom and Evermeet, for High Magic has returned to the elves of Evermeet's seas. We will re-people the seas, and provide a balance for these forces of evil. The shores of Evermeet will be secure; the seas will again be safe. Tell the People these things," she concluded in a whisper.

 

Darthoridan nodded. He could not speak for the scalding pain in his chest. But he opened his arms, and Anarzee embraced him.

 

"I accept my duty and my fate," the Sea elf said in a voice rich with tears. "But by all the gods, how I shall miss you!"

 

"But surely you can spend much time ashore," he managed.

 

Anarzee drew back from him and shook her head. "I cannot bear the sun, and the nights are when the evil creatures are most active, and my duty most urgent. I will do what I can, and what I must. This twilight hour will be our time, brief though it is."

 

Darthoridan gently lifted her webbed hand and kissed the mottled fingers. "Thus it is ever with time. The only difference between us and any other lovers who draw breath is that we know what others seek to ignore. Joy is always measured in moments. For us, that must be enough."

 

And so it was. Each night when the sunset colors gilded the waves, Anarzee would come to speak with her love and to play with her babe. When at last she had to relinquish Seanchai to his nurse, she would linger in the water below the keep and sing lullabies to her child.

 

In the years that followed, the lovers found that their times together came less and less often. Darthoridan was called often to the councils in the south, and Anarzee roved the seas in defense of her homeland. But she returned to the wild northland coast as often as she could, and to her son she gave the one gift she had to give: the songs taught to her by the merfolk and the sea sirens and the great whales, stories of honor and mystery from a hundred shores.

 

So it was that this boychild grew to become one of the greatest elven minstrels ever known, and not merely for his store of tales and songs of heartbreaking beauty. Even his name, Seanchai, came to denote a storyteller of rare skill. But there was never another who equaled his particular magic, for the noble spirit of Anarzee flowed through all his tales like air and like water.

 

 

12

 

The Starwing Alliance

 

 

The harbor of Leuthilspar was silvered with the promise of dawn when Rolim Durothil and Ava Moonflower slipped away from the home they had shared for many years. They left behind them a large gathering of their kin—Gold and Silver elves alike—as well as a multitude of elves from all clans and races who had come to do honor to Evermeet's High Councilor and his consort, the Lady High Mage.

 

It was difficult for Rolim not to reflect upon what he was leaving behind. He and Ava had been blessed with an unusually large family. They had raised seventeen healthy children, who had in turn given them grandchildren to the third and fourth generation. These offspring had increased both the Durothil and the Moonflower clans. Some of their kin had gone on to form alliances with other ancient houses, as well as with newcomers—elves who had come to Evermeet by sea, or through the magical gates that linked the island to places hidden within the elven realms. He and Ava had been fortunate in their family, and in each other. They had lost kinfolk, that was true. Their daughter Anarzee was all but lost to the sea, though she served Evermeet still as a Sea elf, and a few of their grandchildren had perished in the sea battles that, though less common, were still a grim reality of life on the elven island. But the losses had been somewhat easier to bear for Rolim, in that he had such strength ever at his side.

 

Rolim looked fondly upon his wife of over seven centuries. Her gray eyes were serene, and the oddly dull, kitten-soft gray of her hair was streaked at last with elven silver.

 

But for that, there was little in her face or form to mark the passage of years. Ava appeared to be nearly as youthful as the day they married, and in his eyes she was far more beautiful.

 

Together the aged couple climbed the easy slope of the mountain that overlooked the river and the city beyond. For a long time they stood there, looking out over the place that had been their home.

 

On this, her last day upon Evermeet, Ava's heart was filled with a poignant mix of joy and sadness. She had loved this land and the People in it, but she was prepared to go. Her farewells had all been said in a celebration that had lasted three days. No one had come to the mountain to see them off. This time was theirs alone. She smiled at Rolim, and was surprised to see that furrows lined his brow. He looked deeply troubled—an odd thing, considering the peace that awaited them.

 

Ava tucked her arm into his. "You have served Evermeet with honor, my lord," she reminded him. "And Tammson Amarillis will be a fine High Councilor. You have trained him well."

 

The Gold elf sighed. "I have no fear of Tammson. It is our own brood, and their hot-blooded young friends, who give me pause."

 

It was not the first time Rolim had spoken of this concern to her. There were among their Gold elven descendants some who were not immune to the growing pride of the self proclaimed Ar-Tel'Quessir—the "high elves." It had been a matter of no little concern to Rolim. Gold elven sentiments concerning the innate superiority of their kind was growing to the point where the young elves threatened to mirror the dangerous attitudes of Aryvandaar's ruling elite. Among the youngest two or three generations there were many elves who were bitterly unhappy with the decision to return the Council of Elders to the control of a Moon elf. Tammson Amarillis, for all his talents, would not have an easy road ahead.

 

"The burden is no longer yours," Ava reminded him. "You have ceded your place to Tammson."

 

"I know. But even with Arvandor ahead, it is not an easy thing to leave Evermeet," he said ruefully.

 

"Even so, it is time."

 

It was time, and Rolim knew it well. He and Ava, bonded together by the soul-deep rapport that was rare even among the elves, had both felt the call of Arvandor for many years. So pressing were their duties, so firm was their sense of responsibility to the People, that they had delayed their departure for far too long. But the voice of Arvandor, sweet and compelling, had beckoned to them in every waking hour, and sung them into revery at night. The need for this final homecoming had become too strong for either to resist.

 

The elves closed their eyes and sank deep into meditation. As he did, Rolim's awareness began to sharpen. With ever-increasing acuity, he began to see and hear and feel in ways that far surpassed his mortal senses. As barriers slipped away, he noted with wonderment that the rapport he had shared with Ava was spreading, reaching out until it encompassed all of Evermeet. On he went, traveling out to touch the communities of People upon distant shores.

 

It was a communion beyond anything Rolim had ever known or imagined, and he was awed and humbled. In his heightened awareness, he was exquisitely aware of Ava's thoughts and emotions. She was more accustomed to such wonders than he, for she had spent a lifetime as a High Mage in the communion of her magical Circles. Yet she also took her place in the larger elven community with mingled joy and humility.

 

Rolim understood at last what the call to Arvandor was: a summons into the very heart of magic, into the Weave of Life itself. As the centuries of their mortal lives began to press upon them, elves could no more disregard this call than an elven toddler could push aside the driving desire to walk and form speech. One way or another, the call to deeper community had to be answered. It was no marvel to Rolim, now that he saw the way of it, that more and more often the High Magi were found only among the aged—elders who deferred the call of Arvandor for centuries to serve the People upon the mortal world, finding the needed communion in the Circles. In these days, young practitioners of High Magic—such as his great grandson Vhoori, were becoming exceedingly rare.

 

Vhoori. For a moment, Rolim's thoughts slipped back into the mortal world, tugged there by his concern for the brilliant and ambitious young mage.

 

Be at peace. The son of your son's son will bring great wonders to the People, and power such as few who walk as mortals on this world have imagined.

 

Oddly enough, Rolim was not particularly startled by the voice that sounded in his mind, soothing as the cadences of the sea. For he was reaching out now beyond the bounds of his mortal world, and entering communion with the Elders—those elves who had gone before him. Rolim sensed more of them now, but not as a cacophony of conflicting voices. It was rather like walking into a vast room, and being greeted with smiles of welcome by well-known friends. In this homecoming was a peace—a unity—that filled some unnamed corner of his soul, that place which gave birth to every yearning he had ever known.

 

Dimly, Rolim felt Ava take his hand in hers. There was little sensation of warmth or pressure, though, for their bodies were fading away into translucent, glowing shadows. Yet he knew that Ava's tiny hand was secure in his for they were both truly one with their People.

 

The morning sun broke through the canopy of leaves overhead, sending glowing shafts slanting down through the trees. The last few motes of silver and gold swirled together in a brief, giddy flurry, as if they danced to greet the light.

 

The Durothil mansion was one of the finest and most whimsical in all of Leuthilspar. At a distance, it resembled nothing so much as a flock of swans startled into sudden, graceful flight. One only had to look at the leaping towers to know that many powerful mages dwelt herein, for it took great power to raise a building of any kind from the soil.

 

The newest addition to the mansion was also one of the tallest and most imaginative. Two spiraling crystal towers wound around each other in a way that suggested, but did not precisely portray, a pair of entwined elven dancers. From the tower flowed gracefully curving buttresses, some of which rooted the structure to the sacred island, and others that reached seeking hands toward the starlight. The interior of the tower was less whimsical. It was divided into a number of small rooms, each devoted by its creator to a specific purpose.

 

In one of these rooms, the young Gold elf warrior Brindarry Nierde paced the floor restlessly as he dredged his mind for some way to talk sense into the young wizard who sat calmly before him—floating in midair, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. It was difficult for Brindarry to become too angry with his friend however, for Vhoori Durothil was the epitome of all that Brindarry held dear.

 

For one thing, the wizard was the quintessence of Gold elven beauty, with his pale tawny skin, night-black hair, and large, almond-shaped eyes the color of a summer meadow. His hands were long-fingered and graceful, and his sharp, finely molded features and triangular face called to mind the ancient, enchanted sculptures of the gods that their ancestors had brought from Aryvandaar. Vhoori Durothil was tall, like his illustrious grandfather Rolim, and as lithe as that famous warrior. But his was a different talent. He had come to magic at an early age, and had already proven to have exceptional potential. Already he was acting as the Center of a small circle, and he received from his peers a deference that was out of proportion to his age and accomplishments. Most elves assumed that Vhoori Durothil would in time become the most powerful High Mage on all of Evermeet, and treated him as such. Yet in Brindarry's opinion, the young mage was content to settle for far too little.

 

"It is an outrage," Brindarry burst out when his patience reached an end. "By Corellon's sacred blood! The Gray elves rule in Evermeet, and you simply drift along with events, as unconcerned as the clouds on a summer breeze."

 

The mage lifted one brow, and Brindarry flushed as he remembered that his friend's great-grandmother, the High Mage Ava Moonflower, had been a member of that maligned race.

 

"Gray elf" was more than a mildly derisive term for the People who were usually called Moon or Silver elves. A slight inflection of Elvish transformed the insult to the word for "dross," that which was common and low, the waste product left over when objects of precious metal—by implication, the "Gold" elves—were created. From the lips of another elf, "Gray" was a deadly insult.

 

But Vhoori seemed inclined to let it pass. He gracefully unfolded his limbs and stepped down to stand on the floor. "And what would you have me do, my impatient friend? Strike down the new High Councilor with a fireball, or perhaps lay him low with a single blow from a phantom sword?"

 

"It would be better than doing nothing at all," muttered Brindarry. "You certainly have the power to take action!"

 

"No, I do not. At least, not yet."

 

Those cryptic words were as close as Vhoori had ever come to giving voice to the ambitions they shared. Brindarry's eyes glinted with excitement as he regarded his friend.

 

"It is about time you thought of taking your due!" he exulted. "You have been playing the role of messenger boy for far too long!"

 

A wry smile lifted the corners of Vhoori's lips. "A messenger boy. Never have I heard it put quite that way," he said mildly. "I suppose I should point out that the sending of messages from one tower of High Magi to another is an important part of the Circles' work. It is true that this is my primary task, but considering my youth, the Elders think it best that I learn one thing very well before moving on."

 

Brindarry threw up his hands in exasperation. "How do you expect to rule in Evermeet if all you ever do is chat with the magi of Aryvandaar?"

 

"Ah, but there is power in information."

 

"Power that is shared by every other elf in your Circle," the warrior retorted.

 

"Even so," Vhoori said with a small, secretive smile. "But there will come a time when that is no longer true. Come—there is something I want you to see."

 

The mage led the way up a tightly spiraling stair to the very top of the tower. In the center of the small, dome-shaped room was an alabaster column, from which rose a scepterlike object. It was about the length of an elf's arm and made of some satiny metal that was neither gold nor silver in color, but some subtle shade for which even the precise esthetics of Elvish had no name. Intricate carvings seemed to lie beneath the surface, which appeared to be utterly smooth. It was a marvelous work of art and magic, justly crowned by a large, golden gem.

 

"The Accumulator," Vhoori said, stroking the smooth metal with a lover's hand. "With this, I can store power from each spell that I cast. In time, I will have stored so much power that I can act alone, and cast High Magic as a Circle of one."

 

Brindarry let out a victory whoop. "And then you need no longer answer to the dotards who rule and restrict the use of magic! Your power will be tremendous. It will be an easy matter to oust the Amarillis pretender," he concluded happily.

 

"Not so easy as you seem to think," Vhoori cautioned him. "Tradition, my friend, is a powerful thing. Tammson Amarillis is armed not only with his own merits, which are considerable, but also all those of his illustrious forebears. Even if every disgruntled Gold elf upon this island were to rally under my standard, we would have little hope of staging a successful coup—at least, not by traditional methods of warfare. No, it is time to find not only new powers, but new ways. And perhaps," he mused, "new allies."

 

The Nierde snorted. "And where will you find these allies?"

 

"By doing what I do best," Vhoori said dryly, "by being the very best 'messenger boy' that Evermeet has ever known."

 

 

The elven ship was dying. Captain Mariona Leafbower knew that even as she gave the order for a reciprocal attack.

 

She felt its death as a physical pain. Not in all her decades of travel among the stars had she known a ship that was its equal. In appearance it was rather like a titanic butterfly, with its two sets of sails that glimmered every shade of green known to her verdant homeworld. So vast were these winglike sails that the body of the ship—a sturdy structure with a keel length of over one hundred feet—was almost lost from sight among them. Mariona had inherited the graceful man-o-war from her uncle, who had grown and nurtured it himself, and she had carried on the Leafbower tradition of exploration, trade, and travel for the sheer joy of the journey. She knew this ship as well as any mounted warrior knew her pegasus, and she felt its dying agonies as keenly as if it were in fact a beloved steed.

 

The captain watched stoically as her crew cranked the ballistae into firing position and loaded the catapult with grape shot. Hers was a well-armed ship, with two mounted ballistae that shot enormous metal bolts with the accuracy of an elven archer's longbow, and a catapult capable of delivering a large load of scattershot missiles with devastating force. Even so, it would not be enough, and she knew it. The ship would die, that was certain, and the elven crew, as well. But at least they would take a few of the Q'nidar with them.

 

Mariona cursed under her breath as she watched the next approach of the Q'nidar. A flock of them flapped toward the ship in precise, single-line formation. The Q'nidar—hideous, batlike creatures with a fifteen-foot wingspan and long, barbed tails like those of a wyvern—were as black as the wildspace in which they hunted, but on their crystalline wings glittered every color within both the light and heat spectrums. Q'nidar were heat-eaters who traveled the vast spaces between the stars. They spoke by breathing intricate patterns of heat and energy that were detected and understood by others of their kind. Disaster usually occurred whenever they attempted to "speak" with star-traveling ships. Indeed, they were often drawn to such ships, attracted by the heat and light and activity.

 

These Q'nidar, however, were not merely curious. This was a hunting party, and they desperately needed to feed. Mariona could tell this from the unusually close-knit formation of the flying monsters. They flew nearly nose-to-tail, so that each Q'nidar could feed upon the heat emitted by the creature in front of it.

 

Their first attack on the ship had been unexpected—from a distance they unleashed a blast of breath so hot that it had ignited the protective bubble that surrounded the ship and kept the life-giving envelope of air and warmth in place. The off-duty helmsman, a wizard of considerable power, had drained his magic to put out the flames. He had succeeded—but not before their air supply had been dangerously heated and thinned.

 

It was still hot on the ship. Mariona's hair clung to her scalp in lank silver strands, and the pain in her blistered hands and face was intensified by her keen awareness of the ship's ills. The ship's crystal hull had been cracked by the sudden burst of heat, and the wings were seared and brittle. Her ship yet lived, but barely. It could not survive another hit. And the Q'nidar were closing in, eager to ignite the ship and feed upon the energy of the flames.

 

Mariona waited until the lead Q'nidar was within range, and then screamed out the order to fire. The first ballista thudded, sending a giant bolt streaking toward the creature. The weapon caught the Q'nidar squarely in the upper chest, sending it hurtling back into the ranks of its followers. A few of the Q'nidar at the far end of the formation managed to peel off in time, but for several moments most of the creatures struggled and thrashed in a tangle of bat wings and barbed tails.

 

At that moment, the elven fighters fired the catapult. A spray of small spiked metal balls, lengths of chain, and odds and ends of nails and scrap metal burst toward the tangle of Q'nidar. The shrieks of wounded and dying monsters reverberated through the ship's atmosphere like a chorus from the Abyss. Some of the less-wounded Q'nidar took off in rapid, desperate flight toward the nearest star. A few of the creatures, torn and silent, began to drift off into the blackness of wildspace. One of these floated directly toward the man-o-war.

 

"Hard astern!" Mariona shouted into the speaking tube that led from the deck down to the navigation room. The helmsman—the wizard whose magic combined with the power of the magical, thronelike helm to give power to the ship—acknowledged her order. Mariona noted with deep concern that his voice sounded thin and weary. Passilorris had been at the helm for much too long. His strength and his magic were nearly depleted.

 

The ship began to trace a leisurely arc toward the right as the helmsman urged the ailing vessel in an evasive maneuver. Not fast enough. The Q'nidar flopped down onto the ship's envelope, its black wings spread wide like a pall over the ship, its body bouncing slightly from the impact with the protective shield. So diminished was the air envelope that the creature hung low, bobbing gently between the ship's paired wings.

 

To Mariona's horror, the creature's eyes opened, focused, and then narrowed with malevolence as they glared directly into hers. The Q'nidar's chest slowly expanded as it prepared to expend its last breath in a killing blast.

 

"Fire!" she shrieked, pointing up toward the Q'nidar.

 

The ballista crew threw their weight against the massive weapon, swiveling it around and tilting it up to aim at the new threat. The bolt tore upward and plunged through the creature's heart.

 

A shimmering glow spread outward from the dead Q'nidar to engulf the protective bubble. The bubble's surface began to seethe and bulge like water just coming to a boil. A blast of hot air burst down through the opening, scalding the ballista crew before the magical shield could close in to repair the gap.

 

Mariona noted with grim relief that the ballista bolt had gone clear through the creature, thus allowing much of the hot air from its lungs to escape into wildspace. Had it not, the full force of the blast might have killed many more elves. Either way, however, they were better off than if the creature had "screamed." At such close range the force from such a heat weapon would have reduced the ship to ash.

 

But the threat did not die with that single Q'nidar. The creatures who had scattered and fled were regrouping. Mariona could see the distant flash of reflected starlight on their wings as they hurtled in for the final assault.

 

The final assault. Of that, there could be no doubt.

 

"Captain, we're receiving a communication!"

 

The navigator's voice echoed up through the speaking tube, shrill with excitement and hope reborn.

 

Mariona's heart quickened. To the best of their knowledge, there were no spelljamming ships in this section of wildspace, and no civilization on the nearest world capable of star travel. It would be wonderful to be proved wrong!

 

"On my way," she said, taking off at a run for the narrow steps that led down into the hold.

 

Her eye fell first upon the helmsman, a Silver elf of middle years. He was nearly gray with exhaustion, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the armrests of the helm as if to squeeze from it just a few more drops of power. Mariona rested a hand on his shoulder, briefly, and turned to the navigator.

 

Shi'larra was bent over a scrying crystal, her black eyes intense in her tattooed face. She glanced up at the captain. "The crystal has been pulsing, as if receiving a message. It is powerful magic—definitely elven—but subtly different from anything we know. According to the latest report from the Imperial Fleet, there are no elven ships in this area."

 

Mariona understood at once the implications of the navigator's words. From time to time, an elven civilization upon some outpost world found its own way to star-flight. The first contacts between these fledgling ships and the well-established elven navy that ruled wildspace was usually jarring in the extreme to the newcomers. There were strict protocols concerning how these encounters should be handled. Protocol, however, was a luxury that the desperate crew could not afford.

 

The elf woman lay her palm on the crystal, letting the powerful material absorb her personal magic. And powerful it undoubtedly was—the globe had been fashioned from the crystallized remains of a Q'nidar that had flung itself into a star. Such artifacts were rare and powerful, and she'd considered herself fortunate to have happened upon it in the debris that floated along a common trade route. Now the crystal offered a chance to stave off the utter destruction of ship and crew. Later, perhaps, she would ponder the irony of this.

 

"Captain Mariona Leafbower, of Green Monarch, a man-o-war of Elven Imperial Navy," she said crisply. "We are under attack and have sustained heavy damage. We are near the moon of Aber-toril. The navigator will give you our precise star coordinates. Can you help?"

 

There was a moment of silence. "You are flying? You are near Selune?" demanded a melodious, disembodied male voice.

 

"We are still star-borne, yes," Mariona said, puzzled by the incredulous note in the elf's voice. "Identify yourself and your ship."

 

"I am Vhoori Durothil, a High Mage of Evermeet," the unseen elf said. "And I am not on a ship at all, but on land. Sumbrar, to be precise, an outpost island just beyond Evermeet's bay of Leuthilspar."

 

Mariona and Shi'larra exchanged incredulous glances. Land-to-ship communication was incredibly difficult, and required magical technology of an extremely high level. They had not known that the elves of Aber-toril possessed such magic.

 

"Do you have spelljamming ships in this area?" she repeated.

 

"We have no such ships," Vhoori said. "But I can guide yours to a sheltered bay near the island."

 

Another blast of Q'nidar breath hit the dwindling shield, and another thrumming crack shuddered through the hull. Mariona winced. "Our ship is breaking apart. We don't have time to make landfall. Even if we did, we would be pursued by creatures that want the ship."

 

"I fear I cannot help you in such a battle. Can you leave the ship to your enemies? Have you lifeboats?"

 

Shi'larra nodded, her face grim. "It's that or nothing, captain."

 

Mariona glanced with concern at the failing mage in the helm. His head jerked upright, suddenly, as if he were trying to keep himself awake by force of will. "Passilorris can't bring us down. Ghilanna is dead, Llewellenar isn't feeling much better. We don't have another helmsman."

 

"What is a helmsman, please?" the unseen elf inquired.

 

The captain hissed in exasperation. Her ship was soaring toward oblivion, and this land-bound mage wanted a primer in spelljamming technology? "A wizard," she gritted out. "His spells power the helm—a magical chair of sorts—that powers the ship."

 

"Ah. Then perhaps I can help you. Get your crew to the lifeboat, and place your communication device upon this ... helm."

 

"You cannot power a helm from a distance—not even the minor helm on the lifeboat! It has never been done," Mariona said.

 

"That does not mean it is not worth trying. And I can sense the thread of magic between my communication device and yours. I will bring you down in safety," the elf said confidently.

 

Since she had no better ideas, Mariona turned to the watchful navigator. "Give the order, get everyone aboard. I’ll follow with Passilorris."

 

Shi'larra seized the scrying globe and darted up the steps. The captain gave her a few minutes to gather the survivors and get them aboard the lifeboat, a small, open craft that looked rather like an oversized canoe. But it was light and it was fast; provided, that was, that a mage of sufficient power sat at the helm.

 

In moments Shi'larra's trademark signal—the high, shrieking cry of a hunting hawk—informed the captain that all was in readiness. Taking a deep breath, she dragged the nearly comatose mage from the helm and flung him over her shoulder.

 

Instantly the air in the helm room heated to nearly a furnace blast as the magical connection, however feeble, between mage and helm was broken. In a few moments, the air envelope would dissipate, as well. Mariona staggered up the stairs with her burden and made her way over to the rail where the boat was waiting.

 

It took all her power of will to keep her eyes upon the lifeboat rather than on her ship's flaming sails or the flock of Q'nidar that circled the burning ship, emitting triumphant shrieks and cackles as they drew sustenance from its funeral pyre.

 

At least the wretched creatures were distracted, Mariona thought grimly as she eased Passilorris off her shoulder and into the waiting hands of the survivors.

 

There were only ten elves aboard the lifeboat—all that remained after the last attack. But as Mariona took her place, she noted the awe on each face as they stared at the helm and the crystal scrying globe that sat in the center of the magical chair. The crystal glowed with intense inner power. It appeared that the land-bound mage could do what he claimed: The air that encircled the lifeboat was cool and fresh, which meant that power was indeed flowing to the helm.

 

"Looks as if we might make it, after all," Mariona muttered.

 

"Of that, Lady Captain, you may have no doubt." Their rescuer's voice sounded different, more vibrant—magnified, perhaps, by the power that flowed through the crystal. "By your leave, I will not speak again until we meet in person, except in necessity. The concentration needed to maintain the thread of magic is considerable."

 

"Of course," Mariona replied. "Let me know if there is anything we can do that might help."

 

There was a brief pause. "Actually, there is one thing," the unseen elf said wistfully. "Speak to me of the stars, and tell me what your eyes see on your journey to Evermeet."

 

Mariona cut the ropes that bound the lifeboat to the ship, then nodded to Cameron Starsong, a bard who had purchased passage aboard ship. As the small craft floated out into the darkness of wildspace, she settled back and listened as the elf strummed his lyre—which he had adamantly refused to leave behind—and declaimed in rhythmic, musical cadences a spontaneous ode to the wonders of starflight.

 

As the captain listened, it struck her that the life she took for granted would be the fabric of legend to an elf such as Vhoori Durothil. And the fact that she herself was headed for such a primitive world was disheartening in the extreme.

 

Mariona grimly took stock of the situation. Her ship was lost. At best, it would be many, many years before she could grow another. It was entirely possible that the surviving crew would spend the rest of their natural lives upon Aber-toril.

 

The elf woman sighed and turned her head to look back at her burning ship. Her eyes widened with surprise; Green Monarch was no more than a flicker of red light. She turned to Shi'larra, who was watching the rapidly diminishing light with narrowed eyes.

 

"How fast do you figure we're moving?" she demanded.

 

Shi'larra shrugged. "It's hard to say, without my instruments and charts. But I can tell you this much, we're traveling at least twice as fast as Monarch could at full power. Look down," she said suddenly, seizing the captain's arm and pointing to the rapidly approaching world. "There's Aber-toril, and already I can see the island. By the stars, never have I seen a place so green! And from this height!"

 

"You will be landing soon," Vhoori Durothil declared, in a voice made thin by exhaustion. "We will have boats ready to bring you in. Healers are preparing spells and herbs and will tend your wounded."

 

"Herbs and healers," Mariona muttered, rolling her eyes in Shi'larra's direction. "If we had to become land-bound, we've drawn a hell of a world for it!"

 

A fey smile lit Shi'larra's tattooed face. "Do not sneer until you have seen this world," she said softly. "It might be such that you will have no desire to leave."

 

"Oh yes. That will happen," the captain said caustically. "And as for you—your homeworld is almost unique in that it has no oceans. You're accustomed to endless forests, watered by a network of vast rivers. You're telling me you could be happy on that tiny island?"

 

The forest elf shrugged, and her eyes were fixed upon the rapidly approaching blur of green forest and sapphire seas. "All I can tell you is this: I have the oddest feeling that I'm going home," she murmured.

 

Before Mariona could respond to this odd pronouncement, the boat jerked suddenly as the untried mage who controlled it tried to slow the craft's descent. A second jolt quickly followed, sending the boat into a slow roll. The captain seized the crystal globe and held it firmly against the helm, shouting for the others to help her keep the magical device in place.

 

Again and again the little craft shuddered and jolted as Vhoori Durothil inexpertly slowed its descent into the sea. Even so, the boat hit the water with a force that shattered the wooden hull and hurled the elven crew into the water.

 

Mariona plunged down deep, her hands flailing about as she instinctively sought to find and save the helm. The water that swirled around her was dark with blood, and she knew from the fierce throbbing in her temples that she had taken a head wound, perhaps a serious one. All she could think of, however, was the need to find the helm. If she could not, she would never again travel the stars.

 

Suddenly she felt small, strong hands close on her wrists, and her frantic eyes looked up into the face of the strangest elf she had ever seen. A blue-haired, green-skinned female gave her a reassuring smile, and began to draw her up toward the surface. Mariona glanced at her rescuer's hands. They were striped in rippling patterns of blue and green, and there was delicate webbing between the unnaturally long fingers. Jaded as she was by her years of travel and her encounters with fantastic creatures from a dozen worlds, Mariona had never seen a creature that struck her as quite so bizarre as this Sea-elven creature.

 

Her last thought, before the darkness engulfed her, was that she'd picked a hell of a world to be stranded on.

 

The next thing Captain Mariona Leafbower knew was the soft, lilting sound of elven voices lifted in song. There was a healing power to the music that seemed to draw the pain from her head and the aching lethargy from her limbs.

 

Cautiously, Mariona opened her eyes. She was warm and dry, clad in a silken robe and tucked into a bed that, if the one right next to her was any indication, floated above the floor in a subtle, undulating motion.

 

"Captain Leafbower."

 

Mariona knew that voice. Painfully she turned her head and looked up into the smiling face of a young Gold elf. She was not in such a bad way that she didn't take note of the fact that he was probably the handsomest elf she had ever seen. Even so, there were more important matters on her mind.

 

"The helm ..." she began.

 

"Do not concern yourself," Vhoori Durothil said. "The Sea elves have already found most of the pieces. In time, we will reconstruct it."

 

"It can't be done. You don't have the technology," she said in a voice dulled with despair.

 

"It seems to me that you said something very much like that before," the elf replied with a touch of wry humor. "And yet, here you are."

 

Mariona shifted her shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. "I'll grant that your magic is impressive. Maybe we can learn a thing or two from each other."

 

"That is my hope." Vhoori paused, and glanced at the elves who ringed her bedside. They discretely melted away. When he and Mariona were alone, he said, "You want to leave this world. You have said as much, repeatedly, in the days you lay in healing revery."

 

"Days?" she interjected in disbelief.

 

"Even so. Most of your crew are up and about. I regret to tell you that one elf perished in the landing."

 

"Passilorris," she said immediately, without a hint of doubt. "I was not certain that he would survive, regardless of the ease of landfall." She cast a fierce look at the mage, as if daring him to accuse the helmsman of some weakness. "He was a hero. Without his effort, all would have died!"

 

"He has been accorded a hero's passage," Vhoori assured her, "and a place of honor in the history of Evermeet. I regret the loss deeply. There is much that I would like to have learned from him about the magic of star travel."

 

Mariona sniffed. She and Passilorris had been lovers not too very long ago, so she supposed that she was excused from the need to sympathize with Vhoori Durothil over his loss of a potential teacher.

 

She swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat and swept the room with an inquiring glare. It was a large, perfectly circular room with walls that seemed to be made of a single stone. Large, arched windows looked out over a sparkling sea.

 

"Where the hell am I?" she demanded.

 

"This is the island known as Sumbrar. This house is mine, and the elves who tended you with spell-song are part of my Circle. The magic that contacted your ship, however, was entirely my own." He paused. "Perhaps it is best that this fact does not leave Sumbrar, at least for the time."

 

"Why?"

 

Vhoori drew a scepter from the folds of his robe and showed it to her. "For years now, I have been storing magical power in this device. I drained much of its power to bring you to Evermeet."

 

"So?"

 

The elf hesitated, his green eyes searching her face as if taking her measure. "My colleagues in magic do not know of this device. They have no idea that I can work such powerful magic alone. I would not have them learn of this before I am able to restore the Accumulator to its previous level."

 

Mariona's chuckle was utterly devoid of humor. "The gods forbid that the Elders should take away your toy. How old are you, by the way? Ninety? One hundred?"

 

"I have seen over two hundred springs," the elf said with dignity. "And I assure you, your silence is as much to your benefit as mine."

 

The captain nodded cautiously. She was not a fool, and knew that any elf who could command the sort of magic this one had wielded was a force with which to reckon. If Vhoori Durothil had a proposition for her, she would at least hear him out.

 

"Every elf on this island saw your craft fall from the sky. They will have questions. Tell them what you will, but do not mention my part in the matter. Not yet, at least."

 

The star-traveler's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you planning to do? You're not planning some sort of attack on the main island, are you? Because if you are, you can count me out now. I've never fought elves, nor will I."

 

"And you shall not."

 

A faint rustle at the open door captured Vhoori's attention. He hurriedly tucked the Accumulator out of sight and looked with ill-concealed impatience at the young female who clung to the door's lintel. "What is it, Ester?"

 

"There is a communication from Aryvandaar, Lord Durothil," she said. "You are needed in the Circle."

 

Vhoori frowned. "Ygrainne can act as Center in my stead. Bring word to me if the message is urgent."

 

The elven woman bowed and hurried from the room.

 

"Aryvandaar," Mariona said, a question in her voice.

 

"A great and ancient kingdom, many days' travel by sea from this island," he explained. "Many of our ancestors came from this land."

 

"Tell me," she requested. Her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, and at the moment she welcomed the soothing, melodious sound of the young elf's voice. She relaxed back against her pillows as Vhoori spun tales of wonder and warfare, and a land as beautiful and dangerous as any she had seen or imagined. As he spoke, she slid comfortably back toward revery, lulled into a state of contentment that was rare indeed for her restless spirit, and certain that the dreams that awaited her would be pleasant.

 

A sudden, terrible blast tore Mariona from her comfortable state. She sat bolt upright, stunned by a force that utterly dwarfed the shattering of Green Monarch's hull. Oddly enough, there was no sign of destruction. The room's luxurious furnishings were undisturbed, the birdsong outside the windows continued unbroken. There was no sound of battle, no scent of smoke or death. Only upon the face of Vhoori Durothil was the devastation written; the young mage's face was pale as parchment and twisted in nameless anguish.

 

"What the nine bloody hells was that?" Mariona demanded.

 

Before Vhoori could respond, an elven warrior bolted into the room, his flaxen hair flying about him in disarray and his black eyes wild. "Vhoori, the Circle is destroyed! Every elf who cast the High Magi is gone—gone! Utterly vanished. I would not have believed it had I not been in the spell chamber and seen it with my own eyes!"

 

"Did you hear the message from Aryvandaar?" Vhoori asked in a dry whisper.

 

"I did," the warrior said grimly. "It was a call for help from the tower at Sharlarion—they wanted us to send warriors and magi through the gates at once. Then came a blast that nearly drove me mad, and then—nothing. Quite literally nothing. I was the only elf left in the chamber. What does it mean?"

 

Vhoori abruptly turned away from the dazed and babbling elf and walked to the window. He was silent for a long moment, staring out over the water toward Evermeet with eyes that for once did not see the beauty of his homeland. A beauty that was all the more poignant now, for the added importance that this day's events had given the elven island.

 

"Brindarry, the day you have longed for may well be at hand. Evermeet will determine her own path in a way that she has never done before, and who is to say that this path will not lie along the road you yourself have envisioned? And your task, Captain Leafbower, is made all the easier. All those who saw your ship fall from the sky are dead, but for your crew, we three in this room and the sea people, who know only that your ship was destroyed by a powerful blast. It will be easy enough to fashion an explanation that will content them. Thus we can work here on Sumbrar in privacy, without fear that our task will be detected or our effects deterred. All things have changed this day," he concluded softly.

 

"These are words I have longed to hear," Brindarry said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Why then, can I not fathom their meaning?"

 

Vhoori spun to face his old friend and his new ally.

 

"Then I will speak plainly. Brindarry, our time is near at hand. Your destiny, Captain Leafbower, is intrinsically bound with my own. There is no other to whom you can turn. You see, the Crown Wars have taken their toll, after these many centuries of warfare. The ancient kingdom of Aryvandaar has fallen. Evermeet, for good or ill, now stands alone."

 

 

13

 

Tides of Fury

 

 

An icy wind whipped the island, coating the Beast Lord's black fur with salt-scented icicles. Malar hunched his massive shoulders in a futile attempt to ward off the chill, listening with uncharacteristic patience as the goddess Umberlee wailed and shrieked out her frustration. The sea goddess smashed at the waves with her fists again and again, sending sprays of water leaping up over the rocky coast with each blow.

 

Umberlee's minions, the fearful creatures of the Coral Kingdom who were supposed to bring the sea-faring elves to heel, had been, if not bested, at least contained. Magic had returned to the Sea elves of Evermeet. And this, through the intervention of an elven god! Long and bitter had been Umberlee's jealousy of Deep Sashales, and terrible was her fury against this perceived insult.

 

"There are other creatures in the sea that you can command, are there not?" inquired Malar when at last his rumbling voice could be heard over the roar and crash of the waves.

 

Umberlee stopped in mid-wail. She subsided, sinking down into the crest of the wave she rode as she pondered this suggestion. Her countenance softened a little as she considered the possibilities. "There are many," she agreed. "There are terrible creatures in the depths which will surely come to my bidding. I will send them at once!"

 

"And storms," Malar added as he broke off a daggerlike icicle that hung from his furred chin, and that gave proof of the icy potency of the goddess's fury. "You cannot overwhelm the island itself, but surely you can disrupt sea traffic. Many elves will flee the troubles on the mainland to sail for Evermeet." His red eyes glowed with intense, evil light. "I see no reason why they should reach the island."

 

"Nor do I," agreed the sea goddess delightedly. She surged forward suddenly and flung her arms around the bestial god, drenching him with frigid sea water. Then she was gone, leaving behind a sea that was as calm as a wood nymph's pool.

 

Malar let out a grating, whuffling chuckle. The sea goddess's chilly embrace was a minor discomfort, a minor indignity. In his estimation, things were going well.

 

The centuries-long devastation of the Crown Wars had been deeply satisfying to the Great Hunter. He was not entirely disappointed by the defeat of the dark elves—or drow, as they were now called. Despite his ties with the goddess Lloth, Malar was not fond of any elves, fair or dark. He was willing enough to enjoy the drow's warfare against Corellon's faithful children, but the deaths of dark raiders pleased him equally as well as the slaughter of peaceful forest elves. In fact, he thought it a delightful turn of events that brought the elves to be pitted against each other in this manner. Not only did such inner strife serve his purpose, but it was also most entertaining to observe.

 

The elves on Faerun had been dealt a series of devastating blows. His followers—orcs and goblins, for the most part—would continue to harry the settlements that were scattered through the forests. The time was right to turn his enmity once again upon the elven island. He would let Umberlee do what she could, and what she could for him. Also, there were humans who called themselves the Wolves of the Waves, and who showed considerable promise as raiders. They would be a fine foil to the sea goddess's wrath. And though these humans were not strictly followers of Malar, the god felt certain he could find ways to entice them into joining the hunt for elves. These actions would suffice for now.

 

Yet Malar, the Great Hunter, knew full well that he would not be forever content to concede to others the challenge of the hunt, or the pleasure of the kill.

 

 

Anarzee Sea-elven, once a daughter and a matron of the noble Moon elf families of Evermeet, swam south with all possible speed toward the city of Leuthilspar.

 

Years had passed since the peculiar shipwreck off the eastern coast of Sumbrar. There had not been a single day since that Anarzee had not pondered the strange events of that day. Not that shipwrecks were rare occurrences—far from it. The storms that raged beyond Evermeet's protective bounds sent many an elven vessel into the depths. The Sea elves of the great city Iumathiashae were kept busy rescuing those elves they could, and bearing grim tidings concerning the fate of those they could not aid. But there had been something very odd about that long-ago wreck. The incredible force with which the small craft had been sundered suggested that some new and powerful force was at work.

 

It had taken Anarzee a long time to piece together an answer to her lingering questions. But when at last she had found her way to this answer, she'd been at a loss to know what to do.

 

As she swam southward, Anarzee batted aside a bit of floating seaweed with a hand that was long-fingered and delicately webbed. The sight of her own Sea-elven hands no longer seemed strange to her. She was now a Sea elf in thought and impulse as well as in physical appearance. Even so, her sense of allegiance to her land-dwelling clans was still strong. Right or wrong, Vhoori Durothil was kin to her, the son's son of her own brother. It ran against everything that she had once held dear to speak against him.

 

And yet, how could she not?

 

The Sea elf's decision was made all the more difficult in that she had no idea what use Vhoori planned to make of his new-found power. Elven magic was nearly endless in variety, and it was no uncommon thing for elves to use magic to give flight to common objects. But the sort of magic that could empower an entire ship to fly, that could surround it with air so that it could travel beneath the waves or among the stars, this was more power than any one elf should possess.

 

And what concerned Anarzee most was the secrecy with which the Gold elven wizard had gone about his work. It was unnatural for any elf—especially a High Mage—to hold himself apart from his brothers and sisters as did Vhoori. And it was dangerous for the mages of a powerful Tower to keep so much of their work secret from the larger community. For all Anarzee knew, Vhoori Durothil might be plotting to overtake Evermeet itself. But there was only so much she could learn, and very little that she could do, from her home in the sea.

 

After much private deliberation, she decided to lay the matter at Darthoridan's feet. He would know what must be done. Though he was no longer her husband, Anarzee still sought him out when she could and found that his wisdom had more than kept pace with the passing of years.

 

In the decades since Anarzee's self-imposed exile, Darthoridan had become as skilled a diplomat as he was a warrior. Under his leadership, the Craulnober family had gained in power and honor. They now merited seats on the Council of Elders; in fact, Darthoridan's was among the names spoken when the elves of Leuthilspar speculated upon who might succeed Tammson Amarillis as High Councilor. Accordingly, Darthoridan spent more and more of his time in Leuthilspar, tending to matters of governance.

 

He was there now, or so Anarzee's daughter—the second and last child she had borne to Darthoridan—had curtly informed her. The Sea elf had not lingered at Craulnober Keep. She had turned toward the south at once, and not just for the urgency of the message she carried.

 

The memory of that meeting stabbed Anarzee's heart anew with pain sharper than a manta's sting. She had given birth to a daughter two years after her transformation into a Sea elf. But children born of parents from two different elven races did not inherit from both: there was no blending of the moon and the sea in Darthoridan and Anarzee's daughter. The Sea elf had given birth to a perfect Moon elf maiden—and had given the babe into the hands of a land-dwelling nurse to love and to raise.

 

Abandoning yet another child had nearly broken Anarzee's heart. Upon her insistence, her marriage to Darthoridan had been dissolved, for she could not bear another such loss.

 

As for Darthoridan, though Anarzee saw him with ever diminishing frequency, her love for him had not been altered by her change of form. It had not been dimmed by the passage of time, or by the grief she carried over the loss of her children. He was her lover only occasionally—and that, not for quite some time—but he would always be her love. She would trust Darthoridan to make good use of her knowledge of Vhoori Durothil, as she trusted him in all things.

 

The sun rose and set more than once during Anarzee's journey from Craulnober Keep to the southern city. But she pressed on, scarcely pausing for rest or food. When at last the weary Sea elf passed the outpost island Sumbrar and broke the surface, she beheld a harbor ablaze with lights. Though it was near to midnight, the docks and streets of Leuthilspar were bright with festive lanterns, globes of magical fire, and the flickering, darting pinpricks of light that bespoke the presence of tiny fey creatures—sprites, most likely, and perhaps even a faerie dragon or two.

 

None of these lights were fairer than those that festooned a ship moored just off the docks. An ever-shifting pattern of colored lights played against the rippling sails, and the crystal hull glittered like a dragon's hoard in the reflected light

 

A wistful smile curved the Sea elf's lips as she gazed at the wondrous sight. It occurred to her that it must be near to midsummer, the time when elves made merry and celebrated alliances of all kinds. Weddings were usually made at midsummer. It was likely that this ship was bedecked to carry a newly wedded couple to the home they would share. It had been so when Darthoridan had first taken her from Leuthilspar to his keep upon the wild northern shores they both had loved.

 

Anarzee's smile faded as another, less joyous memory edged into her mind. There was something disturbingly familiar about the ship. The Sea elf swam into the harbor and circled around the ship to read the name engraved onto the crystal prow. Her heart thudded painfully as her eyes fell upon the bold runes.

 

The ship's name was Sea-Riven.

 

Anarzee dove beneath the water and swam quickly toward the city's docks, her thoughts whirling. Surely it was a coincidence that this ship should bear the same name as Darthoridan's sword! Yet she could not deny that the ship was much like the first vessel they had fashioned together for their fight against the sea trolls, the ship that Anarzee had sailed on her last day as a Moon elf. The ship that had nearly been her tomb was reborn and bedecked for a wedding.

 

Perhaps Seanchai had taken a bride. He was nearly of age, Anarzee pondered as she climbed a ladder that led from the sea up onto the docks. Even as her mind formed the thought, her ears caught the sound of faint and distant music. It was not so faint that she could not immediately discern the rare beauty of the singing. This made perfect sense. Her son was already a noted bard—his wedding would draw the finest musicians in all of Evermeet to pay tribute.

 

But if this were so, why had she not been told? Her land-dwelling daughter shunned her, but Seanchai was truly the child of her heart! He would not marry without somehow sending word to his mother.

 

From her perch on the ladder, Anarzee scanned the bustling dock for an unfamiliar face. She did not want to hear of her son's wedding from someone who had known her as the Moon elf she once had been. Anarzee's shoulders had carried many burdens, but pity was a load too heavy for the proud elf woman to bear.

 

Her searching gaze fell upon a Gold elf youth. He seemed a likely choice. His simple garb proclaimed him a commoner. He was barefoot and stripped to the waist, displaying the lean strength of one who made a living through hard labor. His clean-shaven head and the large gold hoops in one pointed ear gave him a raffish, almost piratical air, but neither that affectation nor the large goblet in his hand could disguise the fact that he was very young—barely into adulthood. This elf had not yet been born when she was Anarzee Moonflower, daughter of the High Councilor Rolim Durothil and wife to Darthoridan Craulnober. Nor would he have frequented her circle, in any case. The lad might had heard the story of her transformation, but he would have no reason to make any connection between the heroic priestess extolled in song and story, and the weary, aging Sea elf before him.

 

Anarzee climbed onto the deck and softly hailed the youth. His eyes lit up when they fell upon her, and he made his way toward her with an unsteady gait. To Anarzee's surprise, the dock worker promptly enfolded her in an exuberant hug.

 

"Welcome, pretty maid," he said with great enthusiasm—and exceedingly fuzzy diction. "Come from the sea to celebrate midsummer with me, are you? Sea and celebrate . . . sea shellebration," he improvised, grinning with pride over a jest that apparently struck him as quite clever—and proclaimed him to be very tipsy indeed.

 

Anarzee wrinkled her nose against the heavy scent of feywine on the lad's breath. "If you take me for a maid, you have drunk far more than that single goblet could hold," she said dryly as she tried to wriggle away.

 

The young elf leaned back a bit and endeavored to focus his bleary eyes on her face. "Not young," he conceded. "But so very pretty. And blue hair," he marveled, easing his hold long enough to finger one of Anarzee's damp, curling locks.

 

The Sea elf twisted away and then nimbly sidestepped the lad's attempt to reclaim her. With one hand, she caught his wrist, and with the other she snatched a strand of rosy pearls from her bag and dangled it before his eyes.

 

"Enough of this foolishness! These are yours, in exchange for some information. A fine midsummer gift for a pretty maid," she suggested, hoping to banish the crestfallen look from the young elf's face. "And surely you will have need of such a trinket! The night is yet young."

 

He brightened considerably at this thought. "Ask anything, and I will answer as best I can."

 

"Whose wedding procession is that?" she demanded, raising her voice to be heard over the approaching musicians.

 

"A northern lord. Clan Craulnober. I drink to his health!" So saying, the young elf raised his goblet for a sip. He looked puzzled for a moment, then made a face when he realized anew that the cup was empty.

 

"So it is Seanchai," she murmured sadly.

 

"No, not the bard," the lad corrected her. "The councilor. Darthoridan. Have you not heard of him? He's a famed warrior. Ran the scrags back into the sea, he did, and gave the sahuagin reason to fear the People of Evermeet! Some say he'll be the next High Councilor," he continued importantly, clearly pleased to be imparting such information.

 

But Anarzee no longer heard him. It seemed to her that a vise had clamped around her heart. Her fingers clenched in sympathetic agony around the necklace she held. The delicate thread broke, spilling pearls like falling petals.

 

"Hey, now!" protested the lad, seeing his reward slipping away. He dived for the dock and began to gather up the rolling pearls.

 

Anarzee whirled and ran for the far side of the dock. The joyous throng was almost to the dock. She did not want to look upon the face of the elf woman who had taken her place in Darthoridan's heart.

 

The Sea elf dived into the water of the harbor and plunged deep. She swam frantically, as if she could outrace the full realization of all she had lost.

 

When she was certain that her heart would burst from mingled pain and exhaustion, she stopped and clung to a thick stand of sea grass until she could again draw breath. As soon as she could, she sent out the clicking, whistling call that would summon any dolphin who might be nearby.

 

Before long a sleek gray form sped toward her. Dolphins were friends to the Sea elves, and this one was known to her. He circled the Sea elf playfully, bumping gently against her in a manner that recalled the behavior of the cats she used to keep for companionship and comfort. For once, however, the creature's permanent, impish grin failed to elicit an answering smile from Anarzee.

 

The dolphin seemed to sense her mood, for he bobbed his head rapidly then cocked it to one side in an oddly inquisitive gesture.

 

Take me far from this place, she pleaded in his language.

 

In response, the dolphin rolled a bit to present her with his top fin. Anarzee grasped the offered hold and clung as the dolphin sped off for the open sea.

 

The stunned and grieving Sea elf gave little thought to the passing of time or to the distance they traveled. But it seemed to her that not much of either had elapsed before the dolphin drew up short. The creature looked up toward the distant sky, chattering in surprise and alarm.

 

Anarzee followed the line of his gaze. Through the deep curtain of water, the full moon was clearly visible. But as she looked, a huge, circular form passed overhead, eclipsing the light so rapidly that it appeared as if some massive creature had simply swallowed the moon. Then, just as suddenly, the light was back, shimmering through the troubled water in a way that brought to Anarzee's fear-struck mind the image of a trembling child.

 

The apparition had passed over with startling speed, but not so fast that Anarzee didn't get to catch a glimpse of the four massive, churning legs and the lashing tail that had propelled the creature with such speed.

 

Dragon turtle? she asked the dolphin. The creature nodded rapidly, nervously. After a moment's hesitation, he indicated in clicks and squeals that he needed to rise to the surface to breathe.

 

Though Anarzee had no such need herself, she went with the dolphin. The creature did not ask this of her, but she sensed that he had no desire to go anywhere near the place where the dragon turtle had passed. Dolphins feared them, and with good reason. Such creatures were seldom seen, but all who lived in the sea knew of their power. Dragon turtles possessed a keen, if somewhat unfathomable, intelligence. It was not pleasant to ponder what this one might have in mind, what might bring it so close to Evermeet's shores. Indeed, the dragon turtle had been swimming straight for the elven island.

 

As they neared the surface, Anarzee noticed an unusual turbulence sweeping the surface of the water—far too much to be explained by the dragon turtle's passage. She came up into the air to be greeted by a chill blast of wind from the north, and buffeted by the surging, restless waves. Yet the sky was clear and cloudless, and the stars shone almost as brightly as Leuthilspar's festival lights. Whatever troubled the sea was no natural storm.

 

A large wave caught Anarzee and tossed her high. Just before she was slapped back into the sea, she caught sight of a distant, brightly lit ship, gliding northward on calm waters.

 

Anarzee's breath caught in her throat as she recognized Darthoridan's ship. But her pain was immediately overtaken by a surge of relief. The waters surrounding Evermeet were protected from storms by Aerdrie Faenya herself. Her beloved was safe in the hands of a powerful elven goddess. His wedding ship could not be swept away by this storm unless it deliberately ventured out into the troubled sea.

 

Or unless it was forced.

 

Suddenly the Sea elf suspected what mischief the dragon turtle had in mind. She dived deep and frantically called the dolphin back to her side.

 

I need to see that ship. We must leap above the waves! she urged him.

 

The dolphin was not easily convinced. For many moments they argued in vehement clicks and chattering that transformed the waters around them into a dizzying whorl of vibrating sound. At last the dolphin conceded and allowed Anarzee to take hold of his dorsal fin. Both of the sea folk swam upward with all their strength, and then hurtled themselves up into the final spring.

 

As Anarzee clung to the leaping dolphin, she saw her beloved's ship lurch suddenly toward the east. It was as she feared: The dragon turtle was forcibly herding Darthoridan out to sea.

 

Without pausing for thought, Anarzee left the dolphin behind and sped toward the doomed ship.

 

The night was nearly spent when Vhoori Durothil's skiff touched the docks of Sumbrar. On the main island, the midsummer festival was still in full celebration. All the people of Evermeet, not only the elves of every race but all the other fey creatures who made the island their home, marked the longest day of summer with music and dance, feasting and revelry. Though Vhoori was not adverse to gaiety, he was eager to return to his island, and his tower, and his all-consuming work.

 

Vhoori's accomplishments had outstripped most early predictions of his potential. His skill at magical communications, in particular, was uncanny. Many times he had foreseen approaching danger and given warning, and so effective was he at this task that the entire outpost island of Sumbrar had been placed under his rule. A large contingent of warriors were garrisoned there, and a score of fighting ships were kept on alert. But perhaps Sumbrar's most potent defense was the magic wielded by its Circle. Vhoori Durothil's tower had become one of the largest in the elven realm. Many young mages vied for the honor of training with Sumbrar's High Mage.

 

Yet there were back on Evermeet many elves who feared Vhoori Durothil's growing power, and who spoke out against the dangers of isolating a tower of High Magi, and the dubious wisdom of placing a considerable fighting force in the hands of a single elf Chief among these dissenting voices was that of Darthoridan Craulnober.

 

Vhoori gritted his teeth at the thought of his rival. At the last council meeting, not more than a fortnight past, Darthoridan had spoken long and eloquently about the dangerous divisions growing between the various races of elves. He had even had the nerve to point out that only Gold elves were accepted into Sumbrar Tower, and that only Gold elves fought in the outpost guard.

 

This was true enough. In Vhoori's eyes, this practice was merely a matter of preference and convenience, but Darthoridan's words had made it appear a sinister plot. The seeds of suspicion had been planted in many a fertile Moon-elven mind. This, Vhoori could not allow. The mage could ill afford to have attention focused upon his work, and he had no intention in any event of becoming accountable to a Gray elf.

 

Nor was this the worst that Darthoridan had done. The Craulnober upstart was gaining ground in the Council, and was even spoken of as a possible High Councilor. Vhoori Durothil fully intended that this honor would be his. He had chosen his wedding gift for Darthoridan accordingly.

 

Somewhat cheered by this thought, the mage alighted from his skiff and hastened to the uppermost room of his tower. There he kept the Accumulator, as well as many, many other magical objects he had collected or created. Even now, in the darkest hour of the night, the room would be bright with the combined light of a hundred softly glowing spheres.

 

As Vhoori entered the chamber, he noted that he was not alone. Before one such globe sat Mariona Leafbower, her eyes fixed upon the globe and her pale face twisted in an expression of intense longing.

 

Vhoori pulled up short, startled by the captain's presence in this, his inner sanctum. His next thought was concern for what the elf woman might have seen. Each magical globe was a window, and some of the sights they revealed were for his eyes alone.

 

But predictably enough, the captain gazed into the globe that probed the stars beyond Selune.

 

The mage cleared his throat. "If you wished to see the stars, Captain Leafbower, you had only to walk outside the tower. This is my private room. There is no reason for you to be here."

 

Mariona glanced up. A wry smiled lifted one corner of her mouth as she took note of her host's consternation. "No reason?" she echoed dryly. "It's midsummer night, Vhoori. Maybe I came here hoping to celebrate with you."

 

A startled moment passed before the mage understood this comment for what it was. He could not imagine intimacy of any kind with this tart-tongued elf woman, but he had become well acquainted with her tendency to say things meant to throw him off stride. That had worked, once. These days he merely responded in kind.

 

"I am surprised you noted the changing of seasons, much less the coming of the solstice," Vhoori said mildly. "Perhaps you have become more attuned to this world than you like to admit."

 

Mariona's lip curled into a sneer. "Not likely! The sooner I shake the sand of this wretched place off my boots, the happier I'll be!" She rose abruptly and stalked over to the mage, her fists planted on her hips. "And speaking of which, when can I leave?"

 

"Leave?"

 

"Don't play the fool!" she snapped. "The first ship is nearly full-grown. The original helm has been rebuilt and tested beneath the waves. The air envelope held; the ship is fully maneuverable. I can leave this place, and I want to do so at once."

 

Vhoori sighed. "We have had this conversation many times, Captain Leafbower. Yes, there is one ship ready for starflight. But tell me, who would crew this ship? Who but you is eager to make this long trip? Shi'larra?"

 

Mariona glared at the mage, but she could not refute his words. She had not seen her former navigator for years. Shi'larra had declared herself utterly content with her new home, and had long ago disappeared into the deep forests of Evermeet.

 

Nor was the forest elf the only member of Green Monarch's crew to have gone native. One by one, the elves had slipped ashore, armed with papers of introduction from Lord Durothil himself.

 

The captain hissed in frustration. The fools had probably spent the night dancing beneath the stars, never giving a thought to the days when they had traveled among them!

 

Well, to the Abyss with them. Surely there was another way off this rock.

 

"What about your wizards?" she asked grudgingly.

 

In the years since she'd made landfall, Vhoori had learned some of the secrets of star travel, mostly by experimentation, and had taught them to several young magi of his Circle. Any one of the Gold elven wizards could get her where she wanted to go. Mariona had seen better helmsmen in her time, but she'd certainly also seen worse. And Sumbrar's warriors were an elite group, well trained and highly skilled in the ways of ships and seas. Surely some of them would be eager to travel the stars. There was glory and adventure, and even treasure aplenty to be had in the service of the Elven Imperial Navy.

 

"My people know their roles, and they are content with them," Vhoori said. "And truly, why would any elf want to leave Evermeet, but for Arvandor itself?"

 

The mage spoke simply, calmly, as if stating a widely accepted truth. As indeed it was, Mariona reluctantly acknowledged. At that moment, the captain understood at last the futility of her long-cherished dream.

 

She let out an oath and backhanded the nearest globe. The priceless, magical crystal flew across the small room and shattered against the wall.

 

Anger flared in the High Mage's eyes. Mariona lifted her chin and stared him down, almost daring him to strike. At this moment of anger and loss and utter frustration, she would have welcomed the killing blow.

 

But Vhoori's face softened, and he came to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You have not lost the stars. If only you would open your heart, you would experience their wonder again."

 

The elf woman spun away from him and threw herself into a chair. Never had she felt so utterly defeated. "All these years on this gods-forsaken rock, and for what? I will never leave—I'll be trapped on Sumbrar until I die!"

 

"This world is a wide place, Captain Leafbower. I have come to know you and your nature, and have heard from your former crew the reputation of your adventurous clan. You are not content to remain long in any one place. But the seas of Aber-toril, the scattered lands and ancient cultures, are not these things worth exploring? If you so desire, I will see that you have a ship and crew."

 

A tendril of interest worked its way into Mariona's benumbed mind. It was not wildspace, but even so...

 

"I don't suppose you have decent maps and star charts," she muttered.

 

Vhoori suppressed a smile. "As to that, you may judge for yourself. My library is at your disposal. Star charts we have, but it may well be that you can greatly improve them. Certainly, you have an insight that no one on Evermeet can equal. Your work will guide elven ships for many centuries to come." He paused, as if beset by sudden doubt. "That is, if you can captain a ship upon the water. It is easier, I would think, to sail through the endless void than to deal with matters of tides and winds."

 

The captain's eyes kindled. "I was walking the deck of sea-going ships when you were still in nappies, and furthermore—"

 

She broke off suddenly, for the mage had dissolved into ringing laughter. Realizing that she was being teased—and more importantly, that he had deliberately reminded her of a time and a work that she had loved—Mariona gave him a grudging smile.

 

"Now that you mention it, I wouldn't mind sailing these waters myself!"

 

With these words, she caught up one of the many globes that showed a sea-scape and tossed it playfully to the mage. Vhoori caught it, glanced down. His eyes widened, and he returned his gaze to the image within.

 

"Well, indeed. It would seem that my gift to Darthoridan Craulnober was fortunately timed," he murmured.

 

Curious, Mariona rose and came to look over Vhoori's shoulder into the globe. Within the magical sphere she saw the image of a ship, crystal-grown like an elven man-o-war. The sails, which glowed with multicolored light, hung slack, flapping helplessly in the gathering wind despite the efforts of the elven sailors who labored at the ropes. Another cluster of elves gathered at the stern, firing upon the enormous creature that nudged and prodded the boat out into an odd, unnatural band of turbulence. The creature, by all appearances a titanic turtle, was odd enough. But stranger still—at least to Mariona's eyes—was the invisible boundary that abruptly separated the calm sea from the storm.

 

"The dragon turtle wishes to destroy the ship," Vhoori reasoned. He did not sound particularly displeased.

 

"Not so," the captain said. "Just look at the size of that thing! It could shatter a crystal hull with a few swats of its tail. And I'd be willing to bet my favorite dagger that this dragon has other weapons worth using."

 

"Its breath," Vhoori admitted. "If the dragon turtle wished to do so, it could send a scalding cloud of steam over the ship that would certainly kill most of the crew."

 

"And likely damage the ship, as well," Mariona retorted. "That's not its intent."

 

"What, then?" the mage demanded, not liking the direction that her reasoning was taking.

 

The captain tapped the globe with one finger. "Three ships," she said, indicating three specks of heat and color in the distant seas. "My guess is, these people want your ship. The dragon turtle is in alliance with them—or more likely, they're both answering to whoever sent this wizard weather."

 

"This is no wizard's work," Vhoori mused as he studied intently the storm raging within the globe. Already the ships that Mariona's sharp eyes had discerned were coming fully into sight. They were long and low, each bearing a single large, square sail. Vhoori had seen such ships before. They belonged to pirates from the north, primitive humans who lacked the sort of magic needed to create such a storm.

 

There was only one explanation for such a gale: It was the work of Umberlee herself. For whatever reason, the capricious goddess had made the raiders' purpose her own.

 

By her power, every bit of speed had been coaxed from the sturdy little ships. The sails were tightly curved and as full of wind as they could be without rending under the force. Even the masts seemed to be bent almost to the breaking point.

 

"Raiders, I'll warrant. They want to capture the elven ship unharmed," Mariona said, answering Vhoori's question before he could put words to it. "It will be easier for them to slip past Evermeet's defenses in an elven ship, to strike at other ships or even to raid coastal towns."

 

"This we cannot allow," Vhoori said. He raised his gaze to Mariona Leafbower's eyes, and saw grim determination reflected back as if from a mirror.

 

"You promised me a ship. I can sail those waters," she said, nodding toward the globe and its image of wild seas.

 

"No doubt," Vhoori responded. "But we could never reach the elven ship in time to bring aid. At least, not by sea. Come." He turned and strode quickly from the tower room.

 

The elf woman's brow furrowed with puzzlement. Then Vhoori's meaning came to her, and a fierce smile set flame to her eyes. She fell into step beside the mage. "You said 'we.' You're coming in to battle?"

 

"This night Evermeet's first starwing ship will take its maiden flight," the mage said. "Who better to take the helm?"

 

The captain nodded. "Good. You've got more power than any helmsman I've sailed with. But remember, I'm the captain and this battle is mine. Do you think you remember how to take orders?"

 

"That is not my strongest skill," he said dryly. "But yes, this battle is yours to fight—and mine to win."

 

Mariona cast a sharp, sidelong glance at the mage. She did not care who got the credit for this victory. The prospect of walking again upon the deck of an airborne ship was enough for her. But there was an odd note in Vhoori's voice that she disliked and mistrusted. More was brewing than an eminent battle against a dragon turtle, a trio of human pirate ships, and an angry sea goddess—as if that wasn't enough!

 

To steady her nerves, Mariona brought to mind one of her favorite maxims: "If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth doing," she muttered. By that token, or so the elven captain strongly suspected, her night's work would be worthwhile indeed.

 

 

As Anarzee swam desperately toward her beloved's ship, a large, moon-cast shadow fell over her. Another followed swiftly. The Sea elf paused in her headlong race just long enough to glance up as the third ship swept past her.

 

Human ships. The Sea elf had seen such ships before, and knew well what manner of human sailed them.

 

"Pirates," she murmured, sending a rift of bubbles floating up into the troubled sea.

 

The dragon turtle's part in this was now apparent. Since no human ship could pass unbidden through the magical barriers surrounding Evermeet, the pirates had made a bargain with the sea monster. Anarzee wondered what the humans had offered the dragon turtle in exchange for delivery of the elven ship. Treasure, most likely, for the promise of elves to devour was a hollow one—if that had been the dragon turtle's only purpose, the creature could surely have carried it out without the aid of human pirates.

 

Anarzee twisted in the water and swam upward with quick, powerful strokes. Her head broke the surface and she bobbed there in the turbulent waters as she took stock of the situation.

 

The elven warriors aboard Sea-Riven fought desperately against their gigantic foe. Magic was not a viable solution, not at such close range. Any spells powerful enough to hurt the creature would almost certainly destroy the ship, as well. Their arrows, even the huge ballista bolts, merely bounced off the dragon turtle's armor. Any vulnerable areas the creature possessed were hidden beneath the waves.

 

As if his thoughts echoed Anarzee's, Darthoridan vaulted over the rail of the ship and plunged down toward the monstrous turtle. In his hand was a long metal tube, from which protruded the barbed tip of a spear. A second spear was strapped to his back.

 

Anarzee caught her breath; Darthoridan's attack was a brave and desperate move. The turtle's shell was a mass of ridges and spikes, and Darthoridan might as well have been leaping headlong into a mass of braced and ready weapons.

 

But Darthoridan came up onto his feet and at once began to pick his way along the spiny center ridge of the shell, heading for the creature's head.

 

A small cry of relief escaped the Sea elf. Darthoridan's shoulder was bleeding badly, but at least he had survived the leap. She began to swim for the dragon turtle, never once taking her eyes from the brave warrior she loved.

 

Just then the dragon turtle butted the ship again. The impact cost Darthoridan his footing; the elf stumbled and rolled painfully down the bumpy curve of the creature's back. He slammed into one of the ridges that lined the edge of the shell. Not bothering to rise, he began to work his away around the macabre island, using the ridges as handholds, toward the opening from which protruded the massive front leg.

 

Anarzee nodded grimly. The harpoon Darthoridan carried could fire with considerable force. If he could get a clear shot through the folds of tough, leathery skin of the dragon turtle's leg, he could pierce the creature's heart.

 

Even wounded, Darthoridan moved quickly. In moments he'd reached his target. Hooking his feet around one bony ridge, he lowered himself and his harpoon into the water. The Sea elf's keen ears caught the sharp click of the harpoon's release, carried to her by the water.

 

A terrible roar split the night. The dragon turtle reared like an angry stallion and then wheeled about, swinging its massive head this way and that as it searched for the source of the attack. Its yellow eyes fell upon the elf clinging to the edge of its shell. The reptilian orbs narrowed with malevolence, and the turtle's head craned back, jaws snapping. But Darthoridan had rolled back onto the shell, and was scrambling to the center where he was well out of reach.

 

The dragon turtle changed tactics and went into a roll. Once, twice, the pale armor of its belly glinted in the moonlight as it tried to rid itself of the troublesome elf. The creature's spin created twin surges of water that caught the elven vessel and carried it ever closer to the turbulent sea—and the rapidly approaching pirates.

 

Anarzee wailed and swam all the faster, though she knew there was little she could do. Once Darthoridan was cast into the water, the sea creature could finish him off with a single snap.

 

But when the turtle righted itself, the elven warrior clung to the center ridge of the shell, stubborn as a barnacle. He could not do so for long, however; a wash of bright blood mingled with the water that flowed down the slope of the creature's shell. No warrior could ignore such wounds forever.

 

Suddenly the sea around Anarzee went still. The unnatural winds eased off, and the surging, white-capped waves sank into the sea, sending small restless ripples skittering off. Anarzee heard the guttural shouts of surprise as pirates trimmed their sails to adjust for the diminishing wind. They no longer needed such wind, Anarzee noted, for they would soon be upon Darthoridan's ship.

 

For a moment the Sea elf knew despair. As she gazed out over the quieting sea, inspiration struck her, as clearly as if the voice of Deep Sashales whispered in her ear.

 

Without the marker provided by the restless waves, the humans had no way of telling where the dangerous shields lay!

 

The Sea-elven priestess began to chant a clerical spell, praying for an illusion that would turn the serene waters surrounding Evermeet into a mirror—a mirror that would reflect the still-choppy waves of Umberlee's storm.

 

Anarzee completed her spell and then dived deep—a heartbeat before one of the pirate ships blundered into the magical barrier.

 

A flare of light transformed the dying night into midday, and turned the ship into a torch. The Sea elf plunged downward to escape the sudden heat, and to avoid the flailing limbs of the pirates who had survived the first blast and who had leaped—or been thrown—into the water.

 

The boom and crackle of the fire, the bellowing of the angry dragon turtle, the thrashing of the wounded humans—these things filled Anarzee's senses like a chorus of triumphant music. Too late she caught the vibrations that bespoke a new presence in the waters nearby. Instinctively she twisted to one side—just as a sleek gray form brushed past her.

 

For a moment Anarzee thought the dolphin had returned to join the battle. But the rough hide that rasped painfully against her arm could belong to only one creature. The sharks, drawn by the commotion of battle and the scent of spilled blood, had come to feed.

 

Anarzee drew a knife from her belt and dived deeper still. She slashed off a length of kelp and quickly bound the arm that had been abraded by the brush with the shark. There was not much blood, nor would there be, but even a few drops in the water around her could mean her death. At the moment, the sharks were driven to a frenzy by the abundance before them. They would be busy with the pirates for quite some time. But few sharks ever became so sated that they would forbear to hunt their favorite food: a wounded Sea elf.

 

She placed the knife between her teeth and swam up to the enormous shapes silhouetted against the burning sky. The dragon turtle had turned its attention back to the elven ship, and was nudging it relentlessly toward the open sea—and the two ships that awaited the prize. A thin line of blood streamed into the water from behind the creature's leg, diminishing even as Anarzee drew near. Darthoridan's shot had done little more than nick the turtle's hide. It fell to her to do better.

 

The Sea elf lunged for the enormous tail. She caught hold of the tip, then pulled herself against the tail and wrapped her legs around it as tightly as she could. With one hand, she took her knife from between her teeth and drove it deep into the tail. She pulled it down with all her strength, tearing a gash in the hide.

 

Again the dragon turtle roared, a terrible sound that reverberated through the water and even created a lull in the sharks' grim feasting. Anarzee held on as the tail lashed fiercely back and forth through the water. When this method did not avail, the turtle raised the tail above the water and flicked it upward with one quick, hard motion. The Sea elf released her hold, letting the momentum throw her up onto the turtle's spiked shell.

 

She was not so fortunate as Darthoridan. Waves of agony swept through her as she slammed facedown onto the bony ridge. But she tore herself upright, off the short spike that grated against her hip bone, and came up onto her hands and knees. Ignoring as best she could the searing, numbing pain, she forced herself to look at the wound. There was blood, far too much of it. In a shark-infested sea, such a wound would prove mortal—of that she had no doubt. But perhaps she could survive long enough to complete the task before her.

 

Still on her knees, the Sea elf made her way over to where Darthoridan lay. He was hurt worse than she had first thought, and near to losing consciousness. She slapped and shouted and pleaded until at last his eyes focused on her.

 

"Anarzee," he whispered. "Oh, my poor, lost love. There are so many things I must say ..."

 

"No time," she told him grimly. With one torn hand, she gestured toward the elven ship. It had passed the barrier, and pirates swarmed up onto its crystal decks. "The humans must not have this ship! You know what use will be made of it."

 

A female's scream, shrill with pain and terror, rang out over the sounds of battle. Darthoridan swore bitterly as two of the humans dragged a struggling elf woman up from the hold. The elf woman's bright gown, the circlet of summer flowers hanging askew in her tangled hair, left little doubt in Anarzee's mind as to her identity.

 

Darthoridan struggled to his feet, but he did not immediately go to his new wife's aid. He seized the harpoon and thrust a second spear into the metal tube. As clearly as if he spoke his thoughts aloud, Anarzee knew what was in his mind. His first task was to keep the ship in elven hands. As long as the dragon turtle lived, the ship was lost. The Sea elf looked down into the churning sea, where the sharks were still avidly feeding. No land-dwelling elf was nimble enough in water to avoid them. If Darthoridan tried again to stop the dragon turtle, he would surely be dead, and his efforts would be for nothing.

 

Anarzee seized the harpoon with her one good hand. "Go," she demanded, nodding toward the rope ladder that the pirates had draped down the ship's crystal hull.

 

"You are hurt," he protested, noting at last the blood that stained her mottled skin.

 

"I am dying," she said simply. "Go, and let me die well. You must save the ship, and the People upon it."

 

Before Darthoridan could respond, the Sea elf scrambled down the turtle's shell and dived into the water. The Moon elf took a long, shuddering breath and made his way up to the shell just behind the turtle's head. Although the creature's task was done—the elven ship had been herded beyond the magical shields—it remained nearby, circling the ship like a waiting shark.

 

Darthoridan waited until the creature circled back around to the place where the pirates' boarding ladder hung. He leaped, catching the lower rungs as he fell. The pain as he slammed into the crystal hull was nearly overwhelming, as was the dull throb in his torn shoulder. But he pulled himself up and rolled over the rail onto the ship.

 

Battle, bloody and fierce, raged all around him. As the elves fought for their lives. But Darthoridan's comrades were no army—just a few friends and kindred who had accompanied the newly wed couple on the northward trip.