Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  “So much for Evermeet’s defenses,” he murmured.

  The elf’s only response was a thin smile.

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

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

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

  “Tell me this is another illusion, elf,” Blethis implored.

  “The storm is all too real,” the elf said, pulling the folds of his cloak tighter about him. “Sail on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your advisors have assembled in the throne room, Your Majesty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But Keryth was not fated to speak this day.

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

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

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

  But this blow was surely more than they could bear.

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

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

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

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

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

  Book One

  The Fabric of Legend

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

  —excerpt from a letter from Elminster of Shadowdale

  1

  The Godswars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Accepted, and then betrayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sehanine.

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