by Lynn Abbey
Stiwelen nodded; Alassra looked to the Gold elf for a contradiction and got it.
“They are part of the Yuirwood. They had accepted the forest; it had accepted them. There was no other way. They understood that. When the humans came into the Yuirwood, they accepted them, too, and the Cha’Tel’Quessir were born.”
“And the Cha’Tel’Quessir are doomed as well!” Stiwelen shouted, an unseemly sound that echoed around the menhir. He rose to his feet and stalked the perimeter of the glade. “This is what comes of leaving things half-done. Are we going to let our mistakes flourish or are we going to put a stop to them?”
The Gold elf rose to his feet as well. “There have been no mistakes!”
Stiwelen laughed, a biting sound, like quarrels from a crossbow. It flushed the birds from their roosts in nearby trees. A nighthawk stooped; there was scream, then silence as it took its prey. Alustriel laid her left hand on Alassra’s arm. A spell tingled in her fingertips.
Nethreene, we should leave now.
Alassra shook off the hand and the spell. Dlaertha, she used her sister’s secret name, as Alustriel had used hers. Go, if you wish, but the conversation’s just starting to get interesting. I think I’ll stay a while longer.
Alustriel scowled and stayed.
“They are both right,” the old woman whispered, as if the men couldn’t hear her. “The Yuir were what we call Sy-Tel’Quessir, what you call wild elves. They held themselves apart from the coronals and the Court. They turned their backs on elegant cities, elegant philosophies. When the forest was threatened by humans, drow and their allies, the Yuir Sy-Tel’Quessir fought alone: They refused all offers of assistance.”
“Offers!” Stiwelen sputtered, proving he heard and listened. “You do not offer a drowning man a rope. You dive into the water and drag him to the shore.”
It was the Gold elf’s turn to shatter the night’s quiet with his laughter. “And you know nothing about either drowning men or the Yuir Sy-Tel’Quessir. The choice was theirs: They made it; we honored it. The trolls, the drow, and the rest of the Underdark were repulsed. They had their victory, on their terms.”
“What of the humans? The Cha’Tel’Quessir say the humans fought beside the Yuir in the dark days, not against them,” Alassra asked.
“The Cha’Tel’Quessir,” Stiwelen spat the syllables out as curses. “Suppose we fall in love, you and I.” He glared at Alassra who considered it unlikely. “We exchange vows. We live together. We have children. If I love a Gold elf or a Sea elf or even a drow, my children will be like me or their mother, but with you, our children would be neither wholly like you, nor wholly like me. A mistake? Perhaps. An exception? Certainly. The foundation of a new race? Half elf, half human forever? The Cha’Tel’Quessir? Gods help us all! They have accepted a burden they cannot hope to carry. They are children playing with fire, and they must be stopped.”
“This, from the man who’d leap blindly into water to rescue the drowning. What do you do when a man is trapped in a burning house? Walk away?”
“I’d make damn sure he couldn’t fall in the water or set fire to his house again! What would you do, Islywyn?”
Alassra thought there might be other options, chief among them: talking to the Cha’Tel’Quessir elders who freely admitted—to her, at least—that they knew less than they would have liked about their Yuir ancestors. She’d take care of that when she got back to Aglarond when she shared her account of this evening. But before that—lest the reason for this gathering be forgotten:
“Excuse me, I came here to learn about Zandilar, the Dancer.”
“The fool,” Stiwelen replied as Islywyn said:
“The traitor.”
“One, the other, or both?” Alassra asked, provoking the two men in the hope of getting them to speak freely, and rashly.
But it was the old woman who answered her. “A maiden, not of the Sy-Tel’Quessir. She fell in love with the forest and it gave her one of the old names and accepted her as part of itself. Neither wizard, nor warrior, she was merely beautiful, and when the Yuirwood was attacked, she defended it with her beauty and rode to battle on a gray horse.”
Islywyn strode onto the quilt. He stood in front of the old woman, towering over her. “Zandilar rode straight to the drow temples. She defended the Yuirwood by consorting with the dark god, Vhaeraun!”
The old woman rose to her feet, agile and steady despite her frail appearance. “She hoped to seduce him and take his secrets back to the Yuirwood. She was betrayed.”
“The traitor herself betrayed!” Islywyn countered. “The fate of all those who treat with the drow: the seducer becomes the seduced.”
“Never! She suffered, as only gods can suffer, but her true faith was never broken, even at the end.”
“Here’s your fool, Stiwelen,” Islywyn said, staring at the old woman. “Zandilar the Martyr.”
The old woman closed her eyes.
It was stand or be left out of the conversation, so Alassra stood. “What happened to Zandilar? Her name remains on a Sunglade stone. Others have weathered, but hers remains.”
“That’s a question to which no one has an answer,” Stiwelen said softly. He leaned against the menhir, knife in hand, examining its edge. “Zandilar, as my lady says, suffered as only gods can suffer: she was subsumed, vanquished, we think, along with all the gods and demigods the Yuir venerated. They all disappeared, extinguished like so many candles. The Tel’Quessir cannot find them. The Seldarine cannot find them. As for the Yuir, they were extinguished not long after they defeated the drow and drove them back; and the trolls and their other enemies—except for the humans.
“Humans cut down the ancient trees; the Yuir fought among themselves. Humans carved farms where there had been forest; the Yuir sickened and dwindled. Humans set up camps in the heart of the forest and within a generation—a human generation—the Cha’Tel’Quessir had claimed the Yuirwood.” Stiwelen sheathed his knife. “Tell me, Queen of Aglarond, do you think there was love in the air when the first Cha’Tel’Quessir were born?”
“Yes.” Alassra replied.
“Then, tell me the name of your mother’s mother.”
The Queen of Aglarond stood mute, unable to answer, uncertain which of her mother’s parents had been an elf, which had been human.
“Bethril,” Alustriel answered in her sister’s place, “Bethril Morningsong, daughter of Herran and Caethene. She was a Moon elf, like yourself and through Herran Morningsong she traced her lineage to Querryl and Thalleir, Elayna and—”
Alassra stopped her sister with a sad shake of her head. “Thank you, I should have asked long ago, but Stiwelen’s point is well-taken. The Cha’Tel’Quessir know they are descended from the Yuir elves, but they know nothing about them, presumably because those ancestors shared nothing with their Cha’Tel’Quessir children. The Yuir and their gods were forgotten or—worse—half remembered. And the problem with anything half-done or half-remembered is that it’s never the right half. Is it, Stiwelen?”
“Never,” the Moon elf agreed. “The Yuir erected the outer circle, but they didn’t tell their children why. Now those children are whispering forbidden names, and their whispers are being heard.”
“You can’t be serious,” Islywyn snarled. “It’s been five hundred years since the last Yuir died.”
Alassra couldn’t tell if the Gold elf meant too much time had passed, or not enough. Elves understood time and tradition in a fundamentally different way than humans could. Mystra’s Chosen—Elminster, herself and her sisters, and a handful of others—might live as long as elves, but they were too few in number to ever think like them. She judged Stiwelen younger than Islywyn and both of them far younger than the old woman, but she couldn’t guess if five hundred years was a large part of Stiwelen’s life or a small one.
“Our friend here,” Stiwelen extended his hand toward Alassra, “did not hear Hanali’s name in her dreams. She heard Zandilar. The Yuirwood Sy-Tel’Quessir failed, Islywyn. T
hey couldn’t keep their promises to the Seldarine, and they couldn’t keep their promises to the Yuirwood, either. Can you imagine that these Cha’Tel’Quessir will fare better? They don’t even know what those promises were! We don’t know! How many more mistakes must be made before they are corrected? You listened to our friend: Zandilar’s name came to her in a dream. Zandilar’s stone is legible again. Zandilar’s coming back, Islywyn. They’ll all come back.”
“Zandilar,” Islywyn mused. “Zandilar the Traitor, corrupted by Vhaeraun.”
“Not a traitor,” the old woman insisted. “Never a traitor! She escaped from Vhaeraun’s pit and returned to the Yuirwood. Her faith was never challenged.”
“It should have been,” Stiwelen shouted. “It should have been by the Tel’Quessir! We should have acted when we could.”
“They did,” the old woman said in a whisper that commanded attention. “I was there. The drow and their allies were gone; the humans were coming. The Yuirwood could never be restored to what it had been; there was only the question of protecting what was left. The Yuir elves and their gods agreed: they gave up their essence to the forest, to keep its secrets. They agreed to be forgotten.”
“But they weren’t,” Alassra said, matching the old woman’s tone. “The Cha’Tel’Quessir were born. They remember … They want to remember.”
The old woman smiled. “There was love when the first Cha’Tel’Quessir were born. Zandilar saw to that.” Satisfaction illuminated her pale, fragile skin. “There must always be passion and hope.”
“Zandilar, the Traitor,” Stiwelen hissed, his hands going for his knives.
Alassra surged, intending to place herself between the Moon elf and the woman. Alustriel latched on to her sleeve.
Nethreene! No! We have stayed too long. We must go—quickly.
Spellcraft tingled on Alassra’s elbow. She could have shaken it off. She could have blasted Stiwelen: instincts honed through six centuries of danger told Alassra that she had the advantage over the sages—though not, perhaps, over the servant who, scarcely noticed, prepared a spell of his own. Elves at war with elves: it was the darker part of their legends, even in the Yuirwood.
Nethreene!
And nothing a human should witness.
Alassra shook off her sister’s hand and spell. She wouldn’t be dragged like a wayward child. A moment later they faced each other in Silverymoon.
“Well, that was interesting.” Alassra got the first words between them.
Alustriel was too shaken to respond. Her eyes were glazed with tears; she made her way blindly to a chair where she sat with her fingers in a knot. “We have turned over stones best left unturned,” she murmured. “The sages always speak with one voice.”
“Either you’re mistaken, or we weren’t listening to elven sages. We didn’t start turning over stones, Sister, they rolled over in front of us. The Yuirwood’s getting its most ancient gods back, and I don’t know what that means because the Tel’Quessir either don’t know themselves or won’t trust a human with the truth.”
After a moment’s reflection, Alustriel nodded slowly. “They wanted to know what you already knew. They came to listen, not to advise.”
“They were supposed to come with answers.”
“They will confer, resolve their differences—”
“Concoct a tale suitable for our ears? They’re afraid, Sister dear. They’ve been afraid of the Yuirwood since they came to Abeir-toril, and they’ve never been more afraid than they are now.”
“With good reason.”
“That remains to be seen.” Alassra summoned the wherewithal to return to Velprintalar.
“Be careful, ’Las. Don’t do anything rash, I beg you. I’ll return to Evermeet; I’ll talk to them and get to the bottom of this.”
“Do as you wish, and don’t worry about me: I don’t start things; I finish them.”
Alassra raised her hand and was gone, back to Velprintalar and her privy chambers where she shed her gown, her silver hair and every other habitual part of her appearance. The Simbul became Cha’Tel’Quessir, with brown hair and burnished skin. She pulled on soft leathers in wine and sable. She retrieved weapons—a spear and a sword—from a chest beneath her bed. When her transformation was finished, not even her sisters or Elminster would have guessed she was not what she appeared to be: a Cha’Tel’Quessir sell-sword without a whit of magic to her name.
18
The city of Bezantur, in Thay
Approaching sunset, the nineteenth day of Highsun, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)
Lauzoril paced his locked bolt-hole deep within enchantment’s Bezantur academy. His crimson robes of office, shimmering with enchantments and embroidered in gold, swirled around him. Dust vanished in the spell-induced breeze that kept the bolt-hole air cool and fresh. Waiting never came easily for him. Waiting for the Chairmaster to open a Convocation came hardest of all.
He disliked the posturing and pretense that accompanied the zulkirs’ gatherings: the suffocating robes, the web of deceptive and defensive spells each threw up. The defensive spells were negated the moment they sat down, and as for deception, he was immune to most and could, with a little effort, see through the rest.
So could the other zulkirs.
They could see Szass Tam for the corpse he was, and they could see him as a slave’s son. Once, when Lauzoril was a novice toiling in Eltabbar, he’d shaved his body and decorated it, but he came from hairy stock. The effort always exceeded the effect, and there was nothing he could do about his ruddy complexion or his bright green eyes without compromising his vision. Long before Lauzoril became zulkir, the tattoos were gone, save the oldest one, and he’d let his hair grow out.
He was a slave’s son; he wasn’t proud of it, but he’d stopped being ashamed. There was silver in his golden hair now and natural lines were starting to create their own decorations on his suntanned skin, but at a Convocation, only Szass Tam presented a stranger face.
Lauzoril paused to wonder what face Lord Necromancy would present.
This Convocation was Aznar Thrul’s idea, even if Szass Tam’s seal had been on the writ Lauzoril had received from the Chairmaster only a few short hours ago. Lord Invocation, in his secondary office as Tharchion of the Priador, was leaning on Lady Illusion.
Only a fool would have believed Mythrell’aa’s return to neutrality a few months back. Even if her declaration had been sincere, Lauzoril knew better than most that once an ally of Necromancy, always an ally of Necromancy. Mythrell’aa had stood with Szass Tam at the last Convocation. If she hadn’t—if she’d clung to her neutrality—Necromancy wouldn’t have had the weight to mortify Enchantment, Thrul, and Nevron of Conjuration for their parts in last year’s futile attack at on the Rashemaar barbarians at Gauros Gorge.
She was entitled to collect a debt. No matter that Szass Tam had endured worse humiliation late last winter beneath the stones of Thaymount. Szass Tam, never a fool, honored his debt, sealed the Chairmaster’s writ, and was compelled to appear, the same as any other zulkir.
That much, Lauzoril knew for himself. The rest, the whys behind Aznar Thrul’s strong-arm diplomacy and his expectations at day’s end, he’d learned from Thrul’s vengeance-minded spy master. The zulkir had been speaking with her in this room when a minion from the Black Citadel arrived. For a moment it had seemed that Lauzoril’s worst fears about doing business with traitors had been realized, but the minion had merely carried a message warning Lauzoril to prepare for a quick Convocation in Bezantur.
Lauzoril hadn’t begun asking the spy master questions when she told him everything he’d wanted to know. And a bit more. She was adamant that running Lady Illusion out of Bezantur was only the beginning. Thrul had plans for Aglarond, plans for Conjuration, and plans for Enchantment, all of which involved replacing people he didn’t like with people he could control.
He despises you, the spy master had said. He thinks you rely on luck and charisma. You were supposed to die last year
in the Gorge of Gauros—a battle accident, a Rashemaar arrow from a Bezantur bow. He will never forgive you for surviving. After Szass Tam, you’re next. He’s picked your successor, when we have negotiated, I will share it with you.
After Szass Tam.
For Lauzoril’s father and grandfather, after Szass Tam meant the day the sun rose in the west, but the Zulkir of Necromancy had stumbled badly. Since spring, his undead legions had fallen apart—literally—when he failed to maintain the spells that animated them. Blackhearts, turncoats, and renegades who’d relied on Necromancy to sustain their treacheries found themselves exposed to bitter, unforgiving winds. Summer had brought public executions, private assassinations, and cracks in the lich’s armor.
Lauzoril had exploited a few of those cracks himself; Enchantment was stronger than it had been. So were all the other schools. The zulkirs had spent a season realigning themselves, carefully and subtly, because no one had known the extent or nature of Szass Tam’s wounds or when he might decide to reassert himself.
If Lauzoril hadn’t had the message from Thrul and additional information from Thrul’s spy master, he might have thought today’s Convocation marked the start of Tam’s return. The zulkirs were growing bolder—less careful, less subtle, less afraid of Necromancy. It wouldn’t be wise to belittle Szass Tam. He was, undeniably, the mightiest zulkir in Thay’s history, but he had to reassert himself soon, or sheer power wouldn’t be enough.
Lauzoril might have been worried. Instead he was excited. After today, the words “after Szass Tam” might not be a motto for the undead. After today, Lauzoril might be at hazard with his allies, might be allied with his enemies. Illusion and Enchantment had made common cause before, though not in his tenure. Anything was possible, even in Aglarond where his dagger moved through the impenetrable Yuirwood forest.
It all depended on the face Szass Tam showed at the Convocation, whether the lich was equal to Invocation, Conjuration, and Enchantment combined—for the next few hours they would remain allies—or whether tomorrow might not be the first day after Szass Tam.