Rolim’s heart quickened with excitement. This was the adventure, the opportunity, for which he had waited his entire life. He was the third son of the Durothil patriarch, and as such did not stand to inherit position and power in Aryvandaar. What he possessed, he had earned for himself with his sword and by his wits. As a warrior, a survivor of the terrible Crown Wars, he was not without wealth and honor of his own. And now he who had fought to expand the kingdom of Aryvandaar was on his way to carving his own place from the wilderness of Evermeet.
Ever since the choice for High Councilor had been announced, Rolim had been quietly furious that this honor had fallen to a Silver elf. This title should have been his by right of birth and by virtue of his talents and accomplishments. A Durothil should rule in Evermeet. In Rolim’s mind, it was that simple.
He cast a sidelong glance at Keishara Amarillis, who stood with her hands on her narrow hips and her eyes fixed on the approaching ship. She was not young—perhaps in her fifth or sixth century of life—but she was comely enough: slender and tall, with a direct gray-eyed gaze and the fiery locks characteristic of her clan. Hers were cropped short, and they clustered about her finely molded head in a tight cap of bright curls.
As he appraised the High Councilor, Rolim began to consider a possible side route to power. He had enjoyed in his travels the company of an impressive number of fair maidens, and he prided himself upon his skill in the fine art of wenching. This over-ripe beauty would fall into his hand all the faster for the time she’d spent upon the vine. She would be easy enough to conquer, and then to influence …
As if drawn by his musings, Keishara turned and looked directly into his intense and unguarded stare. Rolim suspected that his thoughts were written all too clearly upon his face. Well, little harm done, he thought, brushing aside his momentary touch of embarrassment. Although he had not meant to start his campaign for Keishara’s favor in so blunt a manner, perhaps it was well to give her something to ponder during the sea voyage.
But Keishara did not flush or simper, as did the village maids whom Rolim had charmed by the score. If anything, she looked mildly amused.
Amused!
At that moment, Rolim Durothil declared war—a private and hidden war, but none the less serious. No elf of the Amarillis clan would lord it over him with impunity. He had thought to allow Keishara to retain her place of honor; that was simply out of the question now. He would rule, by whatever means came most readily to hand.
A tentative hand upon his sleeve shattered his dark thoughts. Rolim spun and stared down at his espoused wife, a nondescript, mouse-colored creature from some lesser branch of the Moonflower clan. She was a High Mage, supposedly, and since Rolim had little magical aptitude of his own to pass down to his children, his father had suggested that he take a wife whose strengths complimented his own. Even though she was not of the Gold elf people, Rolim had agreed because there was a certain wisdom in what his father suggested. If the Durothils of Evermeet were to grow in power and influence, they would need to breed magic into the line. Even so, if Rohm had seen the wench before he signed the papers of betrothal, he might not have been so quick to reach for the quill.
“My lord Rolim,” she began in an apologetic tone.
“What is it, my lady—” He broke off suddenly, for his future wife’s name nimbly avoided his tongue, so absorbed was he with his ambitions.
The elf woman flushed but did not comment on this lack. “Our escort is ready to ferry us to the ship,” she said, gesturing to a small boat and the two Sea elves who awaited them at the oars.
Rolim’s future wife smiled at the strange-looking elf who helped them aboard. “Our thanks, brother. You and your kinfolk are kind to see the People of Aryvandaar to our new home. If ever there comes a time when you require the services of a land-dwelling elf, please call upon our family. This is Rolim Durothil, who is to be my lord husband. And I,” she said with a pointed glance at the Gold elf, “am the mage Ava Moonflower.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Rolim’s lips. Perhaps the wife foisted upon him by clan and council was not quite the mouse she appeared to be. Certainly she seemed to charm the Sea-elven servants. And she was not entirely without appeal, with her enormous grave, gray eyes and the abundant hair that was not quite silver, but rather the soft gray hue of a kitten’s fur. Nor did she appear quite so colorless, with that slight flush of pique resting upon her cheeks.
Perhaps, mused Rolim Durothil as he gazed upon his future wife, this sea journey would be more interesting than he had anticipated.
The voyage to Evermeet was long, but the first handful of days passed by without incident. In fact, the elves of Aryvandaar had little to do. The ship was ably crewed by a large number of Sea elves who took turns tending the onboard duties and scouting ahead for danger in the sea below. Only the ship’s captain was a land-dwelling elf, a Moon elf commoner whose name Rolim never bothered to learn.
For the most part, the future patriarch of Evermeet’s Durothil clan spent his time making subtle liaisons with the other Gold elven families. These nobles devoted endless hours to drawing up plans for the city that they would build. Since Rolim’s clan was the most prominent house among them, the others seemed willing enough to accept his lead and fall in line with his suggestions.
What Ava Moonflower did during the day, Rolim did not know or particularly care. At night, she took her revery belowdecks, in the company of the female travelers. There was little privacy aboard the ship, and Durothil knew that their time as husband and wife would not begin until they reached the elven homeland. What he did not expect, however, was the impatience he was beginning to feel whenever he caught a glimpse of his future wife’s tiny form. Nor did he expect Ava’s pale, serious face to intrude upon his revery and sweeten to find its way into his dreams of ambition and glory.
Late one night, Rolim was pulled from his revery by an unusual break in the lulling rhythm of the ship’s movement. He sat upright, noting that although the ship pitched restlessly, there were no sounds of rain or wind.
Curious, he snatched up his cloak and sword belt, then climbed the ladder to the deck. A few tense and watchful deckhands stood at the rails, their faces grave and their webbed hands clutching ready weapons. A few of the Aryvandaar elves, still heavy-eyed from sleep, clustered together. It occurred to Rolim that these represented all the High Magi aboard ship. Among them was Ava, her mass of pale hair untied and blowing about her like a small storm cloud.
Rolim hurried over to the mages. He took his future wife’s arm and drew her away from the others. “What is happening?” he demanded.
“The ship is under attack,” she murmured, paying him scant heed. Her troubled gaze lingered upon the grim-faced spellcasters. “We stand ready to form a Circle if need be. You must let me return to the others—I am Center.”
“You?”
The disbelief in his voice brought a flame to Ava’s cheeks. Her chin lifted as she met his eyes. “Yes, I. This would not be my first battle, though I am certain that also surprises you.” Her ire faded instantly and her attention returned to the cluster of mages. “Alas, the magi can attack only if the enemy breaks though our defenses and strikes the ship itself. I only wish there was something we could do now to aid the sea folk who fight for us!”
“They are paid well for their efforts,” Rolim noted. “And it seems to me there is little you could do to affect a battle you cannot see. Save your magic to aid those for whom it was intended, Lady Mage, and don’t waste time or thought upon those two-legged fish.”
Ava’s eyes kindled with wrath. Her hand flashed forward and slapped Rolim squarely in the face with a force that snapped his head painfully to one side. Before he could think better of it, Rolim’s warrior instincts took over and he struck back.
He never got close. The tiny female caught his wrist with both hands and spoke a single terse word. The next instant, Rolim, a seasoned Gold elf warrior, was flat on his back on the hard wood of the deck and his future wif
e’s knee was pressed hard at his throat.
“The next words you say against any of the People will be the last you utter,” Ava informed him in a soft, even tone. “All of those upon this ship were chosen by lot, under the eyes of the gods, and we each have a purpose and a destiny. But you will not bring the turmoil and destruction of the Crown Wars to this new land, this I swear before all the gods! If you try, I will fight you at every turn, my lord.”
And then she was gone. Rolim scrambled to his feet and scanned the deck with furtive eyes. No one, it seemed, had noticed his humiliation at the hands of his as-yet unclaimed wife. All were intent upon dragging aboard the wounded Sea elves who had floated to the moonlit surface.
Near the far rail, Ava knelt at the side of a dying female warrior, her pale hands trying in vain to hold together the gaping folds of the sea woman’s death wound. Tears spilled down the mage’s cheeks, but her voice was strong and calming as she sang the ancient prayers that guided the warrior’s soul to Arvandor, the hone of all elves, just as Evermeet must be.
As Rolim watched the Silver elf mage at her selfless, hearfelt labors, he felt a sudden wrenching pain, as if something broke free from around his heart. Warmth and light flowed in, bringing a peace that he had never known he lacked.
Without hesitation, Rolim reached into his bag for the healing potion that every warrior of Aryvandaar carried, his last and personal salvation in the event of battle gone awry. He went to Ava and handed her the priceless vial.
“For our people,” he said softly.
For just an instant, her gaze clung to his, but in that brief time Rolim saw in her gray eyes the measure of what he might become. It was a very different image from that which his ambitions had fashioned, but he was nonetheless content.
And at that moment, though many days would yet pass before he walked upon its shores, Rolim Durothil truly came home to Evermeet.
The goddess Lloth was in a quandary. For centuries she had preyed upon the elves of Aber-toril, and had found it to be an occupation much to her liking.
Lloth seldom remembered that she had once called the god Vhaeraun her son. Now he was merely a rival. As for Eilistraee, Lloth never wasted a thought upon the girl one way or another. The Dark Maiden lived much as she had in long-ago Arvandor: She’d taken to the forest, where by all accounts she squandered her scant store of godly magic in aid of lost travelers and elven hunters.
Lloth preferred the burgeoning cities of southern Faerûn, where turmoil and intrigue bred like lice. She was also growing fond of the dark and twisted tunnels that seemed fashioned for the express purpose of hoarding treasure, staging ambush, and engaging in other delightful clandestine activities. After the dulling sameness of the Abyss, the simmering conflict between the Ilythiiri and Corellon’s fair-skinned children was a bracing tonic. The Crown Wars had been a source of dark joy. All things considered, Lloth had not been as happy for millennia.
She was of mixed mind, however, concerning the matter of the Sundering. The mortal body of Ka’Narlist had been swept away by the terrible floods, and the wondrous city of Atorrnash reduced to legend. Lloth did not mourn the loss of her consort, for she had long ago tired of him. Males, she concluded, were not worth the bother. She did not regret the loss of Ka’Narlist’s person, though she rued the loss of that wondrous vest of Sea elven magic. There was the possibility that Ka’Narlist had managed to capture his own essence in one of his dark pearls. Lloth did not like the idea that the final fate of the malevolent, ambitious entity was not altogether certain.
Other effects of the Sundering also brought mixed emotions to the goddess. On the one hand, it had destroyed many of her worshipers. Yet for each of her elves that had tumbled into the sea or been crushed by falling stone, at least three of Vhaeraun’s followers had perished. Lloth reigned supreme among the dark elves’ gods.
Thus was victory won on any battlefield, as Lloth knew well. The last few centuries had left her with considerable expertise in the art and practice of elven warfare.
So intriguing was this new hobby that she had abandoned altogether her ancient craft of weaving enchanted tapestries. Living beings made more interesting threads for her looms, and the ever changing webs they wove were infinitely more appealing to the dark goddess than the well-ordered destinies she had once fashioned and fostered for her dark elven charges. Her time in the Abyss had given her a taste for chaos.
She was not pleased, however, about this matter of an elven homeland. Lloth might be barred from Arvandor, but there was no place upon this world that she would suffer to remain beyond the grasping hands of her dark followers.
Yet try as she might, Lloth could devise no way to strike against the island. She herself was barred from Evermeet as surely as she was from Arvandor; the same magical barriers that protected the Sacred Forest of Olympus from evil gods also warded the elven island.
This angered Lloth, for it was but one more insult to come from the hands of Corellon Larethian. The dark goddess vowed that, in time, she would find a way to destroy Evermeet. This goal became a focus, a receptacle for all her ancient animosity toward the elven god.
There were, however, other matters that absorbed Lloth’s immediate attention. The dark elves had been driven below ground. There was new territory to conquer, new magic to learn. The descendants of Ka’Narlist and Lloth were now called drow, and they were as evil and fearsome a people as Lloth could have desired. In time, they would become powerful enough to emerge from their dark world and reclaim the whole of Aber-toril. In time, the drow would bring about the utter destruction of Corellon’s children upon the mainland. When that was accomplished, when the elves of Evermeet stood utterly alone, it would be a small matter for her followers to invade and overtake the island, no matter how enchanted it might be. Yes, Lloth had much to accomplish in the warrens and caverns of the great Underdark.
In the meanwhile, Lloth needed an agent to work on her behalf on the surface world. The Ilythiiri raiders who had pressed into the far north often brought back tales of barbarian tribes of humans—fearful warriors who worshiped totem beasts—and oftentimes of the Beast Lord who commanded them. It seemed that Malar, her old acquaintance, was beginning to enjoy a bright turn of fortune.
Perhaps, Lloth mused, it was time to pay a visit to the Great Hunter, and to light once again the fire of vengeance in his heart. Let him spend his strength and his efforts on bedeviling the “elven homeland” while she occupied herself elsewhere.
And why not? Provided that she prodded him in the right direction, Malar was resourceful enough to do justice to the task. Lloth had little fear that the Beast Lord would complete the task and steal her moment of vengeance, for though he had grown in cunning and strength since his attack upon Corellon, Malar definitely lacked the power to challenge alone the forces of the Seldarine.
Even so, a few centuries of torment at the hands of the Beast Lord would make the eventual conquest of Evermeet all the easier.
3rd day of Ches, 1368 DR
To Danilo Thann, beloved nephew of my beloved Khelben, does Laeral Silverhand Arunsun send fond greetings.
Dan, my love! Thank you for your letter, and for the wonderfully silly ballad you composed for me. You will never know how gladly I welcomed every foolish line, for my visit to Evermeet has not otherwise been filled with mirth.
Do not misunderstand me—I consider myself fortunate to be among the handful of humans allowed on Evermeet. You know, of course, of my long-standing friendship with Evermeet’s queen. Nor am I the only one of the Seven Sisters who has had dealings with Queen Amlaruil. My sister Dove’s son was fostered here, kept safe from the many who would harm him to strike at Dove. He was raised in the ways of the elven folk, and is now living in peace and honor as a ranger in the wilds near Shadowdale. What you do not know is that my own child also found a haven on the elven island.
I wish I could have seen your face as you read that last line. You did not know I had a child, I suppose. Very few people do. I thought
it would be better so. What I did not anticipate—and should have—was that my wild and beautiful Maura would find a way to thrust herself into general knowledge. That she did so unwittingly makes the situation all the more difficult.
But I am putting the tail before the teeth. I shall start again, this time at the beginning.
You know my story better than most. For many years I traveled with the adventuring party known as the Nine. We found an artifact, the Crown of Horns, and I in my pride decided that my powers of will and magic were sufficient to counter the evil I sensed within it. I wore the Crown, and it claimed me as its own. Years went by, terrible years during which I lost Laeral and became the Wild Woman, the Witch of the North. I remember little of those years, which in many ways is a blessing. But there were things lost to me that I would give centuries of my life to recall. One of these is Maura.
I do not remember her begetting. I cannot tell you who her father was, nor do I remember the months that I carried her. Of her birth, I can tell you little more. All I recall is a terrible storm outside my cave, a soothing voice nearby, and the fierce piping cries of a baby whose face I cannot recall. My sister Dove found me in travail and tended me, and then took the babe to Evermeet for protection and fosterage. In my terrible madness, I could not care for her, and no one on Faerûn dared to do so. No one knew what influence the Crown of Horns might have had on this poor babe. Such was the legacy I gave my child.
But Maura thrived on Evermeet. Any taint she might have taken from the evil artifact was cleansed by the healing magic of that fair land. She grew up fierce and wild as any forest elf, yet always and entirely her own person. Among the elves, she stands out like a scarlet rose among snowdrops—vivid and startling in her bright beauty. She did not inherit the silver hair common to me and my sisters; she is as dark as I am fair, and even more exotic in appearance. There is no telling what Maura’s sire might have been. Her pale bronze skin and lavish curves suggest southern blood, her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hint at elven ancestry—although that she might as well have gotten from me. She has, I blush to confess, a bit of my own vanity and love of drama. Maura is often flamboyant in her ways and her dress. Other than her love of swordcraft—she is a notable fighter—she has little in common with the elves. In fact, I had traveled to Evermeet this time with the thought to bring her home at last, now that she is a woman grown.
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