Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  “I will free you now,” Durothil heard himself say, “and all will be as you said, except for one additional condition. I will bring Sharlario Moonflower to you when I have trained the dragon to carry me on its back. Or, if I fail in this endeavor, I will return twenty years from the day of the hatching. And on that day, Ghaunadar will have his elven sacrifice.”

  “Done.” The dragon’s voice rumbled with satisfaction.

  With a heavy heart, the elf chanted the prayer that would reverse the godly spell and free the dragon from Ghaunadar’s grip. At once the dragon leaped into the sky, his wings thundering as they carried him toward the lair of the doomed silver dragon.

  Durothil’s eyes were dull as he gazed into the sky, for they regarded not the triumphant and fleeing Mahatnartorian, but his own lost honor.

  When Sharlario and his son returned to their forest home, they found a settlement ringing with praise for the hero Durothil. The elven mage, it seemed, had entrapped the red dragon in a mighty spell and had once again banished it. Many of the elves had been alerted by the trapped dragon’s roars. Some had witnessed the scene, for the morning was clear and the plateau was clearly visible from the forest.

  Sharlario was relieved to hear of his people’s reprieve, but puzzled. Had not Ka’Narlist, the archmage of mighty Atorrnash, said that this dragon could not be overcome through elven magic? The Moon elf respected Durothil’s ability, but he would not have thought the Gold elf’s magic greater than that wielded in the southern lands.

  Perhaps, Sharlario concluded, Durothil simply used his power with greater restraint and responsibility. After all, the mark of the truly great was not merely having power, but knowing how and when to use it.

  The Moon elf was not particularly surprised when Durothil shunned his people’s accolades to spend more and more of his time alone. Sharlario knew all about that. He himself had never been the same after his encounter with Mahatnartorian. For every night of the three hundred years that had passed since that day, the dragon had followed him into his dreams. Not a night passed that Sharlario was not visited by visions in which he saw again the beautiful avariel maid who had captured his heart, caught in the dragonfire meant for him, plummeting to the ground in a tangle of ruined wings. Swept up in a fighting rage that went beyond anything he had ever known or witnessed, Sharlario had forced two of the avariel to carry him above the dragon, to drop him onto the creature’s back. While the monster flew—leagues above the mountains below—Sharlario had climbed to the dragon’s head and lashed himself to one horn. Suspended from the horn, he’d swung down into the dragon’s face and pressed his sword—and his own face—against the glossy surface of the dragon’s eye. So great had been his rage that not even the dragonfright could pierce it.

  The memory of that malevolent eye terrified Sharlario now. So did the dragon’s promise of vengeance when the term of his banishment ended. All of this haunted his revery, and tainted what happiness he had found since that day. He had married a woman of Faerie and he loved her well. Their life together had been filled with small quiet joys and shared laughter. Even so, not a night passed, but that in revery Sharlario did not wander again among the bodies of the lost avariel, mourning the loss of so many of these wondrous folk. Even so, not a night passed when he did not see the faces of his own beloved wife and children superimposed upon those charred and broken bodies. Yes, Sharlario understood Durothil’s need for solitude and healing.

  So he gave the mage a respectful distance for several moons. After a time, however, he thought he might better serve by offering the Gold elf the opportunity to speak to someone who could understand.

  He took himself to the mage’s tower, and was a little surprised to find Durothil both friendly and welcoming. The Gold elf served him feywine with his own hands and asked many questions about Sharlario’s recent travels. He was particularly interested in hearing of the dragon wars, and how such things impacted the elven People.

  “You are a diplomat—have you ever considered what might be accomplished by an alliance between the elves and the goodly dragons?” Durothil asked him.

  Sharlario blinked, taken aback by this suggestion. “Too dangerous. Not all dragons are evil, that is true, but why would any dragon have anything to do with the People? What sort of benefit could we offer to creatures of such power and might?”

  “Elven magic is both powerful and subtle,” the mage responded. “Although it is unlike a dragon’s attack, it could compliment and augment the creature’s natural weapons. Working together, a mage and dragon could be a formidable team. I have long dreamed of starting an army of dragonriders.”

  “But think of the possible recriminations against elves, should we meddle in the draconian wars!”

  “There is that,” Durothil admitted. “But if enough elves and goodly dragons are bonded in purpose, perhaps we can work together for mutual survival. The number of dragons diminishes—they cannot afford to fight each other on such a scale for long or they will utterly destroy themselves.”

  A terrible image came to Sharlario’s mind: the dark elf Ka’Narlist mounted upon the back of a great black wyrm. “But if noble elves align with dragons, evil wizards would quickly follow. Where would we be then?”

  Durothil jolted as if the Moon elf had struck him. He sat silent for a long moment, searching his visitor’s face. “Do you know of a wizard among the People who has turned to evil?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “Oh, yes,” Sharlario assured him grimly. He told of the Gold elf of Atorrnash, and his encounter with the dark elf mage Ka’Narlist. Durothil listened in horrified fascination.

  “And this dagger he gave you—do you carry it with you now?”

  “No. For some reason, I do not like to have it near me, and keep it in a chest in my home. Why?”

  The Gold elf did not answer, but sat for many moments, apparently lost in his own thoughts. After a while he stood, and invited his visitor to follow him.

  Durothil’s home was a tower within the trunk of a living tree. From the forest elves he had learned the magic of coaxing trees to grow in certain ways, and the secrets of how to live in harmony with the needs of his living abode. His was a grand home by the standards of the village, with several rooms stacked atop each other within the massive tree, and others hidden among the branches—although these rooms were more like dimensional portals than anything the forest elves employed. Durothil led his guest to one of these magically constructed towers.

  Sharlario followed his host into a vast room that appeared to be an exact duplicate of the mountaintop plateau—with one exception. In an enormous nest, shielded from the extremely realistic illusion of sun and wind by a rocky alcove, was an enormous, speckled, leathery-shelled egg.

  Sharlario walked cautiously closer. He raised incredulous eyes to the Gold elf’s face. “This is a dragon’s egg!”

  “A silver dragon,” agreed Durothil. “It is near to hatching. I will be the first being that the hatchling sets eyes upon. It will think of me as its parent—at least, for a short time. After that, I will raise the dragon to know its own kind and their ways, but will also teach it elven arts: magic, music and dance, the knowledge of the stars, and the art of warfare. Ultimately, I will teach it to carry me on its back, and how to work with me as a team.”

  The Gold elf walked over to the shell and patted it fondly. “You see before you Faerûn’s first dragonrider. There will be others. For this, I need your help.”

  Sharlario struggled to take this in. “How?”

  “I have heirs, but it seems we have little to say to one another. But you have a way with the young elves, and several restless sons and daughters of your own. Help me train this dragon, and then teach the young ones. Together, we will gain the knowledge—I as a dragonrider, and you as teacher of those who will follow. For many years have I worked to this end,” Durothil said earnestly. “It is the best way my mind can fashion to vanquish the evil dragons, for once and all.”

  For a moment, the ima
ge of the slain avariel flashed into Sharlario’s mind. He nodded slowly, and then came to stand beside the mage. As if in pledge, he placed his own hand upon the dragon’s egg.

  The years passed, and Durothil’s dragon proved to be all that the mage anticipated—and far more. In a burst of unoriginality—no doubt caused by the excitement of the dragon’s birth—Durothil named her Silverywing, and she became so dear to him that at times Sharlario suspected that the mage loved his silver daughter better than his own golden offspring. Certainly, he seemed to have a better understanding of her ways. They spoke mind to mind, in a manner much like elven rapport.

  Swiftly the creature grew from an endearing little hatchling to a thoughtful, intelligent being who learned all that the elven partners had to teach her with a pleasure that surpassed even the innate elven love of learning and beauty—and warfare. Silverywing and Durothil learned to work together to create spells and attacks that neither elf nor dragon alone could counter. And as the years slipped by, all three of them learned one more thing that elves and dragons gained from such a bond: friendship.

  For nearly twenty years, the dragon practiced flight within the confines of Durothil’s magical dimension. She viewed the world beyond through scrying globes that she and her human mentor created together, and she tried to hide her ever-growing restlessness. Finally the day came when Durothil proclaimed her ready to venture into the outside world.

  At the Gold elf’s request, Sharlario went ahead to the mountain top. Durothil had prepared a spell which could carry dragon and rider from her magical home to the duplicate world beyond, but first he needed information about the winds, for this he could not glean through the scrying globes. Sharlario was to go ahead, and relay the needed information.

  The Moon elf left the forest village while it was yet night, for Durothil thought it best that Silverywing try flight in the early morning hours, while the air was relatively calm. Sharlario climbed to the top of the mountain, sure-footed as a cat in the darkness. As he walked, he schooled himself not to think of the battle which had begun here three centuries past.

  No sooner had Sharlario reached the summit than a familiar roar thrummed through the air. Nightmare became reality: Mahatnartorian broke free of the sunrise clouds and came at him in a rush of blood-colored wings.

  There was no time to flee—already Sharlario could feel the heat of the great wyrm’s breath. Since he could do nothing else, Sharlario pulled his sword and waited to earn a warrior’s death.

  But the dragon was not content with a quick strike—he pulled out of the dive and tossed a large object at the elf. Sharlario dropped and rolled aside as shards of glass and multi-colored magic exploded against the mountain. A round disk rolled toward the elf, a piece of fine green marble small enough to fit within the palm of his hand. Sharlario’s eyes widened as he recognized the base of one of the scrying globes that Durothil and Silverywing had created.

  The red dragon’s mocking laughter rolled out over the mountains as Sharlario knew himself to be betrayed.

  Sharlario was not prepared for the intense stab of pain this betrayal brought him. Though the former prince had made no secret of his opinion that Gold elves were innately superior to all others, during the years that he and Sharlario had worked together, they had become partners, even friends—or so Sharlario thought.

  The Moon elf rose and walked to the center of the flat. He unwrapped the globe that Durothil had given him so that he could relay the needed information. He placed it there, so that the treacherous Gold elf might see and savor his triumph. Then he drew his sword again, and waited for the dragon, and death.

  Mahatnartorian began to circle. Sharlario had learned enough of dragons to understand what was coming. The red was gathering his power, stoking his internal flames in preparation for a blast of terrible magnitude.

  The Moon elf watched, resigned to his end. He had lived long, and he was near to the time when Arvandor’s call would summon him home. This was not how he wished to present himself before his gods, but the choice was not his to make.

  Suddenly Sharlario started, then squinted at the silvery streak that was almost invisible against the clouds. In another heartbeat, there could be no doubt: it was Silverywing diving at his attacker, flying like an arrow toward the much-larger red.

  The Moon elf’s lips moved in agonized denial as the wondrous creature he had trained and loved plummeted toward the red dragon’s back. Before she could slash at the red’s leathery wings, the wyrm rolled in flight and seized the young female in his taloned embrace. The two dragons spun together, each grappling for a killing hold.

  It was an unequal battle, and over quickly. Silverywing’s head fell back, her graceful neck nearly sundered by the red wyrm’s teeth. Her glittering wings flapped limply as her body began to fall from the red dragon’s talons.

  But Silverywing’s descent stopped abruptly, and her body seemed to bounce as if it were suspended from Mahatnartorian’s talons by a flexible cord. A shriek of rage shook the stone beneath Sharlario’s feet as the red dragon strove vainly to rid himself of his kill.

  Sharlario watched in astonishment as the great dragon’s flight grew sluggish. Finally the crimson wings ceased to move, and the enjoined creatures plummeted down toward the mountains.

  Toward his mountain.

  The Moon elf turned and fled, half running, half sliding down the slope. When he reached the first of the trees, he braced himself and hung on for dear life. The impact shuddered through the mountain and nearly tore the elf from his hold.

  When all was still and silent, Sharlario made his way back up to the top to say his farewells to his dragon friend. To his astonishment, three beings lay shattered on the mountaintop, joined together by an odd, viscous green substance.

  Mahatnartorian had hit the mountain first, and his body was crushed under Silverywing’s weight. Durothil was still astride her back. He moved slightly, and his swiftly fading gaze fell on Sharlario’s face.

  “Do not,” he cautioned in a hoarse voice as the Moon elf made move to help him. “The bonds of Ghaunadar are not for such as you. Wait—they will fade soon.”

  It was true—the sticky substance was rapidly disappearing. As soon as the mage was free of its bonds, Sharlario went to him to see what might be done. He slashed open the Gold elf’s torn and blood-soaked tunic, and knew that anything he might do would be useless. Every bone in the elf’s chest had been shattered—to move him would only speed his end.

  A crimson froth began to gather at the corner of Durothil’s lips. “Train the others,” he muttered. “Swear it!”

  “I swear,” the Moon elf said, his heart heavy with guilt over his suspicions. “My friend—I am sorry. I thought—”

  “I know.” Durothil’s smile was faint and self-mocking. “Do not concern yourself. All is well, my friend. You see, Ghaunadar has had his sacrifice.”

  Many more years were to pass before Sharlario came to understand the full meaning of Durothil’s final words. He never spoke to the other elves of the mage’s involvement with the evil god Ghaunadar, or of his own suspicions concerning how near Durothil had come to bringing the matter to a very different conclusion.

  But there was no need to tarnish their hero’s luster, or to dim the enthusiasm of the young elves who saw that even a fledgling dragon, elf-trained, could bring down a great and evil wyrm. In the end, Sharlario surmised, what mattered was not only the honorable choices that a person made, but the temptations they overcame to come to that place of decision.

  By that measure, Prince Durothil was a hero indeed.

  8

  From the Abyss

  he gray sludge that covered the Abyss suddenly bulged into a large bubble, which popped and sent sulphurous steam and globs of foul-smelling muck spewing into the dank air. The being who had once been the goddess Araushnee dodged the splatter instinctively, not giving the eruption so much as a thought. She was accustomed to such things by now, for the Abyss had been her home for a very long time.


  Like most tanar’ri, she had taken a new name. She was now Lloth, Demon Queen of the Abyss. Or, to be more precise, she had conquered a considerable portion of the Abyss, and was considered to be one of the most powerful tanar’ri in that gray world. Entire leagues of the fearful creatures trembled before her and hastened to do her bidding.

  Lloth’s dominion encompassed not only the denizens of the Abyss, but also some of the gods who had come to this place either by choice or exile. Her struggle with Ghaunadar had been long and bitter.

  The Elemental Evil was not one of the gods whom she had recruited in her attempt to oust Corellon; he had come to Olympus unbidden, drawn by Araushnee’s ambitions and her vaulting pride, granted entrance by the seething evil within her heart. Her fall from Arvandor had delighted Ghaunadar, for he desired the restless energy that was Araushnee, and wished to assimilate her into himself.

  The ancient god had followed her from Olympus into the Abyss, and he had tried to woo and then to conquer—and he had failed at both. In his rage, Ghaunadar had slain many of his most powerful worshipers, and robbed others of their sentience. Entire species of beings were no more, others were reduced to sluglike creatures without thought or will. And in doing so, Ghaunadar destroyed much of his own power, as well.

  This he blamed on Lloth. He was her enemy now, and a rival in all things. Yet even such as he, an ancient god, had to acknowledge Lloth’s greater power. Nor was he the only deity to do so—even that wretched Kiaranselee gave homage to the Demon Queen.

  Lloth cast a disgusted glance toward the corner of the Abyss where the goddess of the undead held sway. Kiaranselee was a dark elf, like herself, though she called herself “drow.” Her followers were pitiful shadows of the creatures they once had been, evil elves from an ancient world whom Kiaranselee had slain and made into unthinking minions. When she was not on distant worlds bedeviling her drow children, Kiaranselee was content to rule in her frigid corner of the Abyss. She demurred to Lloth because she had no choice in the matter. In this place, the former goddess of dark-elven destiny ruled.