Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  I did not then know or even suspect that Arilyn was Amnestria’s half-elven daughter, nor did I sense that my sister’s moonblade is now in Arilyn’s able hands. Unfortunately, the actual trial of Lord Kymil was private, else I would have learned of my kinswoman’s part in bringing this traitor to justice, and could have made myself known to her, and to you.

  My mother the queen recently told me of the great service Arilyn did for the elven people of Tethyr. She also spoke of the honor that Arilyn has done me in naming me her blade heir. I have enclosed with this letter a personal note to her, and ask that you give it to her with my highest regards and humble thanks. I hope to meet you both in the near future, to welcome you belatedly to the Moonflower family—although, regrettably, only on my own behalf.

  And now, to the business of your letter. You asked me of Kymil Nimesin. There is much I could tell you. He possessed many of the virtues and qualities that define elven nobility: an ancient and honored bloodline, skill in the arts of warcraft and magic, physical beauty and grace, a wide knowledge of lore and history. Few elves can match him with the sword, and I once considered myself fortunate to have studied with him. He was also touted as a far-traveled adventurer. Years ago, I was flattered when he asked me to accompany him to Faerûn for the great work of seeking and recovering artifacts from lost elven lands. At the time, I could not begin to guess what he truly sought.

  As a bard, you have surely heard some of the stories told of the lost children of Evermeet. Only two of the thirteen children born to Queen Amnestria and King Zaor are still known to live—this is one of Evermeet’s greatest sorrows. It may be that some are yet alive, but Lord Kymil sought to remove all doubt by seeking and destroying all heirs to Evermeet’s throne.

  Why did he spare me, then? You, Lord Thann, may understand this better than most. Like you, I am the youngest of many children. My reputation among my people is—forgive me—no better than yours. Unlike you, however, I am no thespian who cloaks his talents behind a mask of frivolity. (My mother the queen is kept well informed of the Harpers and their methods, and your work is known to the elves. You, a proven spell-singer, would no doubt find amusing some of the discussion concerning the utter impossibility of a human mage casting elven musical spells.) Unlike you, I am precisely what I appear to be: restless, frivolous, not sufficiently reverential toward tradition, too quick to take action, too fond of feminine charms and ill content to restrict my enjoyment to potential elven princesses, too enamored of the wide world and the many peoples in it—in short, I am hardly a suitable elven prince. Lord Kymil saw in me a moderately useful tool, and no more. No doubt he would have disposed of me, too, once he thought my usefulness had reached an end.

  What motivated Kymil Nimesin? This question has preyed upon the minds of elven sages and philosophers since the death of my father the king. What would cause an elven noble of great gifts and good family to turn against a royal clan—not to mention a king chosen by the gods themselves?

  This is clearer to me than it is to many elves, for I have traveled widely and, like you, I have loved a woman of mixed blood. My heart has become a harp tuned to play melodies not known to the minstrels of Evermeet. My eyes see that pride isolates the elves from the world—and pits them in endless battle against each other.

  As a bard and a scholar of elven lore, you know that the elven races have often been in conflict with each other. During the terrible centuries in which the Crown Wars swept in killing waves over the People, Gold elves sought to expand their rule at the expense of Silver and Green elf settlements, Green elves joined with dark elves to combat this aggression, and finally Gold and Silver and Green elves banded together to drive the dark elves Below. The Crown Wars and other battles like them tell but a part of the tale. A subtle, constant battle has been waged between the elven races, a battle that is older than the beginning of elven history. If you would understand Kymil Nimesin and his followers, you must go back as far as lore and legend will take you and observe the ancient conflict between Silver and Gold. From such threads are woven the tapestry of Evermeet.

  As you follow the story of Silver and Gold, keep in mind that clan Nimesin is a sept—that is, a minor branch—of the ancient clan Durothil. This fact alone will explain much.

  I repeat: Kymil Nimesin represents much of what is valued by elven nobility. By the same token, he illustrates that which is most basically and grievously wrong with the elven People.

  Prelude: The Coming of Darkness

  10 day of Alturiak, 1369 DR

  ymil Nimesin gazed out of the window of his cell into the endless void beyond. Actually, it was not precisely a void, for points of light glimmered like stars in a deep sapphire sky. Starlight was as important to an elf as the air he breathed, and not even Kymil’s human captors were so ignorant or so cruel as to deprive him of this.

  His other needs had been well met as well. His “prison” was in fact a well-appointed suite of rooms. Kymil had all the basic necessities and many comforts, as well as extras seldom afforded a captive and a traitor. Lorebooks filled a whole wall of shelves, and an elven harp stood on a table alongside a crystal flute. He had parchment and ink in plenty, and even an elegant, golden-eyed cat to accompany him in his eternal banishment. Yes, the Harpers had been generous.

  Once again, as he had so often, Kymil relived the day sentence had been passed upon him by the Harper Tribunal, a detestable court comprising humans and half-breeds. He had been found guilty of the murder of twenty-seven Harpers and sentenced to exile to a miniature, magical world on some distant and mysterious plane of existence far from the world known as Aber-toril. The Harpers had decided this was the only way Kymil’s life would be safe, for many elves of Aber-toril would otherwise make it a life quest to hunt him down and kill him. His larger crime—treason against the elven crown—was not a matter Harpers could address. Kymil doubted the elves of Evermeet, given the opportunity to bring him to trial, would have been as merciful as the Harpers.

  But there was no gratitude in the elf’s heart. The humans who had sent him here were weak, stupid, and shortsighted. He would find a way out of his prison, and then he would complete the task to which he had dedicated his life—the task to which he had been born, bred, and trained.

  Kymil envisioned those who had spoken against him at his trial, and then dreamed of the vengeance he would take upon each one. It was an oft-repeated litany, and it had sustained him through his nearly five years of captivity.

  First was Arilyn, the half-breed and Harper, who for so long had been Kymil’s unwitting tool. A cast-off bastard of the royal Moonflower clan and the heir to a moonblade, she had no knowledge of her royal elven heritage, no place at all in a world where human and elves were not meant to meet, much less mix. When her mother, the princess Amnestria in exile and disguise, was slain at Kymil’s instigation, young Arilyn had been left alone and adrift. To Kymil’s astonishment, the elven blade had accepted the half-breed child as a worthy heir. He recovered from this insult quickly, however, swiftly enough to make Arilyn part of his plans. It had been an easy matter to woo her, train her, give her a sense of place and purpose—and then to use the powers of her sword to strike against the family that had rejected her. There was a certain justice in this, as well as an irony, that Kymil had found deeply satisfying.

  Arilyn, however, had not been of like mind.

  Even now, it was incomprehensible to Kymil that a mere half-breed could have bested him. She had ferreted her way through the layers of his plot, she had scattered his Elite Guard and destroyed one of his most talented Circle Singers, she had thwarted his plan to attack the heart of Evermeet, and—perhaps most stinging of all—she had defeated him in single combat.

  For all these things, Arilyn would die painfully and slowly. But not, Kymil vowed darkly, before she had been stripped of all her pretensions of elfishness. He would force her into battle against noble elves and see her moonblade turn against her. He would see her utterly outcast by humans and elves alike. He
would see the devotion in the eyes of the human mage who so clearly loved her replaced by loathing and rejection. He would see her the plaything of orcs and ogres. And then, he would get nasty.

  Once Arilyn was satisfactorily destroyed, Kymil would turn his attention to Elaith Craulnober. This was not merely a matter of vengeance, but principle, for Elaith was not only a Gray elf, but a rogue at that. Lord of a vast business empire that ran the gamut from the shockingly criminal to the merely questionable, Elaith was a power with which to reckon in the great city of Waterdeep. Kymil had employed Elaith’s services many times, usually when he needed a task done with which he would not sully his own hand. Yet Elaith had taken Arilyn’s side, standing together as Gray elves were wont to do, and had given testimony against Kymil. It was so unusual for one elf to speak against another that Elaith’s words had held tremendous weight at Kymil’s trial. And there was also the matter of the papers that Elaith had produced—papers that linked Kymil with the evil Zhentarim. The Seldarine be praised, Elaith had not scented the meat of Kymil’s dealings with this powerful group!

  Then would come Lamruil, prince of Evermeet. Oh, Kymil had seen him at the sentencing, though the fool had taken some care to disguise himself. Even with a cloak muting his elven grace and a cowl covering his telltale ears, there was no mistaking Lamruil for any other. The young prince was strikingly handsome, even as beauty was reckoned among the elves. He had the Moonflower eyes—deep, bright blue eyes flecked with golden lights, and he possessed his father’s great height and muscular form. Few elves topped six feet, but Lamruil did so with a handspan to spare. His height alone would fool the less observant, but not only had Kymil made a study of the elven “royal family,” he knew Lamruil well. Too well, in fact.

  Lamruil had traveled with him for years, unwittingly aiding Kymil in his search for the “lost” Moonflower children. In the process, the prince had fought at Kymil’s side, learned from him the art of swordcraft, and uncovered the lost wealth of Kymil’s ancestors. It often seemed, however, that the Gray elf pup was more interested in drinking and wenching than he was in their shared adventures. Lamruil certainly showed far too much interest in humans and their affairs, and his gaiety and light-hearted personality was as annoying to Kymil as one of those trite tavern ballads that so delighted humans—and, truth be told, Lamruil as well. It galled Kymil now to think that this spoiled and insipid princeling might try to recover some of the treasure that they’d left in hidden caches throughout the wilds of Faerûn. That treasure Kymil had meant to fund his ambitions against Evermeet.

  And yet, perhaps that would be for the best. A smile pulled at the corners of Kymil’s tightly set lips. He had warded his troves well, and he doubted that Lamruil, who had scant interest in the art of magic, would be able to survive any attempt to plunder the treasure.

  In a way, Kymil would be sorry to see Lamruil die. The young prince had been a useful tool and might again be of some use. Devoted to his sister Amnestria, Lamruil had been blindly determined to find the runaway princess. He was also anxious to see and experience the wide world and eager to link his fortunes with an adventurer of Kymil’s renown. The lad had been a fountain of information about the royal family, and a pawn in Kymil’s own deadly search for the princess Amnestria and the sword she carried. Lamruil’s search for his sister had failed: Kymil’s had not.

  And he’d gotten away with it for a long time, long enough to give him a confidence that spurred him toward his most cherished goals. After all, Amnestria had been dead for more than twenty-five years, her father for more than forty. This Kymil considered his crowning achievement. All his life—all his life!—he had searched for a means to breach Evermeet’s defenses and destroy the Gray elf pretenders to the throne. His family’s secret exile from the island had made his task more difficult. Kymil could not set foot upon Evermeet, for fear of alerting the powerful Silver elf who knew his secrets. Yet he had found a way, for the discovery of Princess Amnestria’s elfgate had enabled him to send an assassin into the royal city. The elfgate had been his triumph—and his downfall.

  Yet Kymil was nothing if not persistent. For five years, he had contemplated a way to turn this failure around. The elfgate had been moved, the silver threads of magic’s Weave rearranged in a way that Kymil would have thought impossible. But even that could be turned against the royal elves.

  Since the death of Evermeet’s king, Kymil had made a special study of magical travel. He understood it as few elves did. In time, he would put this knowledge to work.

  Nor was that his only expertise. One of the Elite Guard slain by the half-breed was Filauria Ni’Tessine, Kymil’s lover and a Circle Singer of great power. Most elves thought that this ancient gift—a rare type of spell song that could bind disparate magics together—was extinct. But Kymil had sought out Circle Singers, had trained them to weave magic in a manner similar to that done by a Center—a powerful mage who directed a Circle of High Magi. Over the years, the Nimesins and their secret allies had built a Tower of their own upon Evermeet. A circle powerful enough to challenge Evermeet’s own and shut the island off from the world—leaving it stranded, imprisoned by its own powerful Weave of magic.

  “The elves of Evermeet wished to be isolated from the world. They will get what they wished for—and what they deserve,” Kymil murmured.

  All that lacked to bring this to fruition was Kymil himself. If only he could free himself from this prison, he could set in motion plans he and his clan had spent centuries putting into place.

  If only.

  The elf’s near-delirium faded, and the reality of his imprisonment closed around his heart like the talons of a hunting hawk. A cry of rage and despair escaped his lips—a fearful howl so full of rage that it sent a shimmer of dread down his own spine.

  The echoes of his scream lingered long in the chamber, slowly diminishing in a manner than reminded Kymil of the spreading rings sent forth when a pebble is cast into a calm sea.

  When all was silent, the incomprehensible happened: Someone—something—responded to his inchoate call.

  A foul scent drifted into the chamber, and the pattern on the fine woolen carpet began to blur as a dark, gelatinous substance oozed up from some mysterious depth below it. Kymil watched, horror-struck, as the entity Ghaunadar took shape before him.

  He knew the lore. He knew as well as any elf alive that Ghaunadar was summoned by great and audacious evil. Until this moment, Kymil had never perceived his ambitions as anything but right and proper. The arrival of Ghaunadar was a glimpse into a dark mirror, and the shock of confronting his own image was greater than his dread of the terrible Power before him.

  It was not as great, however, as the second stunning surprise dealt Kymil. A large, dark bubble formed on the seething surface of the Elemental God’s form, somehow seeming to take on evil power as it grew in size. When the thing burst, Kymil felt that his heart would also shatter, for standing before him was the thing that above all others was anathema to the Gold elves:

  Lloth, the dark goddess of the drow.

  His horror seemed to amuse the goddess, and the smile on her beautiful face was even more chilling than Ghaunadar’s lurking presence.

  “Greeting, Lord Kymil,” she said in musical, mocking tones. “Your summons has been heard, your methods approved. If you are willing to join hands with those who also plot against Evermeet, we will see you freed from this prison.”

  Kymil tried to speak and found that he could not. He licked his parchment-dry lips and tried again. The words that emerged, however, were not quite what he’d expected to say.

  “You could do this?” he whispered.

  Crimson fire flared hot in Lloth’s eyes. “Do not doubt my power,” she hissed at him. “It would amuse me to see a golden drider—the first! Would you also relish this transformation, Kymil Nimesin?”

  Horror clutched at Kymil’s heart as he contemplated this threat. Elven sages claimed that Lloth could transform her dark-elven followers into horrific beings
that were half-elven, half spider. He did not know, however, which was the more appalling prospect: the transformation itself, or the possibility that he could somehow have fallen within the sphere of Lloth’s influence. Never had he contemplated this possibility; nor, apparently, had those who had imprisoned him here. Despite all he had done, there was nothing in Kymil Nimesin’s life that so much as suggested the possibility that he might seek any gods but those of the Seldarine. Yet here was Lloth, beautiful beyond telling and filling his room with dark, compelling power.

  “I do not doubt you,” he managed.

  “Good,” the goddess purred. “Then listen well. We will set you free of this prison, on the condition that you go where we cannot. The gods of the Seldarine will not suffer us to attack Evermeet directly, but you can gather elves who can and will.”

  “But how?” Kymil demanded. “There are few elves in all the world who would not kill me on sight.”

  “There are other worlds, and many are the elves who inhabit them,” the goddess said. She laughed at the stunned expression that fell over Kymil’s face.

  “You faerie elves are so enamored with yourselves, so determined to think you are the only People alive, that you have forgotten your own history,” she sneered. “You came to Toril as invaders, more than willing to displace those who came before. Do you think that you are the only elves so minded?”

  Kymil struggled with the task of wrapping his mind around this possibility. “Gold elves?” he asked tentatively.

  Lloth laughed again, delightedly and derisively. “Ah, but you are priceless—and predictable. Yes, there are Gold elves upon other worlds. I have prepared some for you. Come and see.”