As an awareness of Ilyrana’s spell spread through the embattled grove, the priests and priestess of all the gods of the Seldarine followed the princess, lending the force of their prayers and their magic to this not-quite-mortal child of Angharradh.
Ilyrana gathered their combined power, instinctively forming it into a new and terrible goddess form. In response to the collective prayer, a warrior maiden clad in gleaming plate armor rose from the soil of Evermeet. Tall as an ancient oak, she held a spear the size of a ship’s mast.
The warrior stood her ground as the elf-eater thundered toward her, and thrust her spear’s point deep into the monster’s mouth. With all her strength she pushed the blunt end of the spear down, levering it toward the ground. Then she dug in her heels, and held on.
The impaling spear thrust deep, abruptly stopping the monster’s headlong rush. Although the mighty shaft bent like an arched bow, although the wood shrieked and groaned and crackled from the strain, the warrior did not release her hold. Then, suddenly, she threw herself backward, preleasing the spear.
As the lowered end of the spear sprang straight and high, the creature was thrust violently in the opposite direction. It flipped, landing on its rounded carapace and rocking like an up-ended turtle. Its three massive legs churned the air and its tentacles flailed wildly, but it could not right itself.
One of the tentacles found and seized the warrior, wrapping around her arm and pulling her close. The magical elf drew a knife and severed the limb, then ripped the clinging length from her arm. Circles of blood welled up on her arm where the tentacle’s suction cups had found purchase, but the warrior paid no attention to these wounds.
The warrior maiden took a gossamer net from her belt and whirled it briefly. It flew over the creature, entangling it in a silvery web of magic. She turned to the tower, nodding toward the watchful elven princess who had given her form and substance. And then she was gone, and the elf-eater with her.
Gone, too, were many of the clerics, for their spirits had been bound up in the casting. Of all the elves who had raised the warrior goddess from their combined power, only Ilyrana lingered.
But her spirit, too, had flown. As Maura knelt beside the too-still princess, she noted a pattern of bloody circles upon the flesh of one white arm.
The woman ran to the window and called for help. The surviving clerics hurried to her aid, but nothing any of the survivors could do had any effect on Ilyrana’s deathless slumber.
At last they somberly prepared to take the princess to Leuthilspar. If anyone would understand this unfathomable blending of the mortal elf with the divine, it would be Queen Amlaruil herself.
Maura went with them. As she tended the princess, she noted with dread and fascination that other wounds appeared on the elfwoman’s silent form. It seemed that somewhere, in some battle that only the gods could witness, Ilyrana was fighting still.
Book Four
The Royal Family
“Duty to clan and family, to people and homeland—this is the truth that guides the life path and heats the fighting blood of the Moonshae Ffolk. But I’ve come to learn in these many years of my life that the honor held so dear by my highland kin is but a pale thing compared to that of the elves. ’Tis a truth that makes me humble indeed before these wondrous folk—and, I admit in all candor, more than a wee bit frightened.”
—Excerpt from a letter from Carreigh Macumail: Captain of Mist-Walker, Friend of the People—
15
The Moonblades
(-9000 DR)
he claiming of the king-making swords was set for twilight on the eve of the summer solstice—a time of powerful magic. From all over Aber-toril, elven nobles gathered in the forests of Cormanthyr for the ceremony. With them came High Magi, three hundred of them, one for each of the swords.
When the sun began to sink below its zenith, they all gathered in a broad valley Ethlando awaited them, standing in a vast circle of swords lying with the hilts turned outward. The magi took their places, as well, standing within the parameters of the swords, near to but not touching the points of the gleaming blades.
Anticipation hung heavy in the air—even the birds seemed hushed as they listened to Ethlando’s magically enhanced voice describe at last the full role of the magic swords.
“Many years ago, I was given a spell by Corellon Larethian himself,” Ethlando began, his voice resonant and sure despite his great age, and flavored with the quaint accent of lost Aryvandaar. “This spell have I taught to these magi. Its magic will give to the swords two things that no other magic weapon possesses: the ability to determine what powers it will possess, and the judgment to chose who is worthy to wield these powers.”
The ancient mage cast a slow, searching glance over the gathered elves. On each face, he saw written confidence, expectation. No one among the assemblage appeared to think himself less than worthy of this honor. Ethlando hoped that not too many would die before they learned otherwise.
“Each clan has chosen and sent representatives. Many who will claim the swords today come from ancient lines, and they can point with pride to many illustrious ancestors. This is a fine thing, but it is not the measure that the swords will use.”
A few brows furrowed in puzzlement or consternation as the elves contemplated these words. How else would a royal house be chosen, but for the honor of lineage?
Ethlando took this as a good sign. At least they were thinking.
“Today, the swords will select their first wielders. In time, they will chose a worthy clan with a proven succession. You see, these are hereditary blades, meant to be passed down to worthy descendants for as long as the line lasts. Claiming a sword will become more difficult as time goes on, for the sword will choose only those who have the potential strength and the character to wield all of the powers of the sword. With each passing generation, the task will grow more difficult.”
“How will we know if the sword has chosen us?”
Ethlando turned to face the young elf who asked the question. “If you are still alive, you have been deemed worthy.”
The seer let this statement hang for several moments in the silence. “Yes, the swords—the moonblades—will take the life of any who are not worthy. This may seem harsh, but consider how great the power of these weapons will be when ten generations have past! Safeguards must be taken, lest their magic fall into evil hands and evil use. Once a sword is claimed, only the sword’s rightful wielder can unsheathe it and live.”
The elves nodded cautiously as they considered the practicalities involved in safeguarding weapons so potentially powerful. None spoke, though, for all were intent upon hearing the seer’s words.
“Any elf can decline the honor of inheritance. There is no compulsion today, nor will there ever be. But know this: those who lay hold of a moonblade also pledge themselves to the service of the People. They do so at great cost.
“The magic each wielder adds to the sword is that part of the Weave that the elf calls his own. You will serve the sword and the People after your death, and forgo the joys of Arvandor. Yet this is not an eternal sentence,” Ethlando added quickly. “When the sword’s work is done, it becomes dormant. Its magic flees—and the essence of all its wielders is released to Arvandor.”
The seer paused to let each elf absorb the magnitude of the commitment, then turned to the matter for which they all had gathered.
“The moonblades will select a royal family through two means. First, the swords will narrow down the field. In a few millenia, only a few worthy clans will still hold blades. These will demonstrate a proven succession of worthy elves. It is possible that a few thousand years hence, some clans might yet have more than one blade in service to the People.
“Second, the powers with which a particular sword is imbued will determine the clan’s worthiness to rule. Some swords will become formidable weapons for highly skilled fighters, others will become like the mage’s staffs that hold spellpower. One, or perhaps two or three, will be
come such a sword as a king might wield.”
Ethlando let the words echo long. “There is one thing I would ask of you. This is not the directive of the gods, but my own request. Do not let more than two elves from any one clan fail this day. If you so desire, an unclaimed sword may be kept by the clan in trust for some future wielder to use in the service of the People. But understand that those clans who do not succeed today, bear little hope of aspiring to Evermeet’s throne.
“Now is the time to speak, if you have any questions. This is not a choice to be made lightly. No elf will be thought the less of for choosing not to claim a moonblade, now or ever. There are many ways to serve the People. This is but one.”
Predictably enough, there was no sound but the restless shifting of elven feet, no emotion written on the waiting faces but confidence of the outcome—and impatience to begin.
Ethlando smiled ruefully. “Very well, then. These are the last words you will have of me. When the casting is done, the magi will see to the ceremony of choosing.”
The ancient elf’s eyes drifted shut, and he began to sway as he hummed an eerie melody. One by one, the circle of magi took up the weird casting. Before the wondering eyes of the elven throng, Ethlando began to glow with faint blue light. His form grew translucent, shimmering with gathering power. The chanting magi, themselves enchanted, began to add words to their spell, albeit words that no mortal elf had heard or spoken before. Ethlando’s form took on height and power as the spell drew magic from the Weave, and wisdom from the gods.
Finally the spell ended on a single high, ringing note. Ethlando’s glowing form burst apart as if he were a crystal shattered by sound. The light that was Ethlando shot out like rays from a cerulean sun. Blue bolts of magic and power flashed to each of the moonblades. The swords were suddenly alive with magic, and glowing with intense blue light.
The watching elves flung up hands to ward off the sudden brilliant flare. When their eyes adjusted to the magical light, they saw that though the moonblades were still alight, Ethlando was gone.
The meaning of this was clear to all. It had been as Ethlando said: The power of the moonblades would be fashioned from the essence of the noble elves who would wield them. The first power, that which formed the basis for all that would follow, was the ability to see and to judge. Who better for this task, than the revered seer himself?
A moment of reverent silence passed before one of the High Magi spoke. “Three hundred swords, three hundred elves. Let the clans who aspire to Evermeet, step forward.”
Without hesitation the first representatives of the clans came. The elves formed a circle around the glowing blades, knelt briefly in prayer to the gods and dedication to the People. At a signal from the magi, they reached as one for the hilts of their moonblades.
Blue light ripped through the valley, and an explosion sent shudders through the ancient trees. In the heavy silence that followed, fewer than two hundred elves rose to their feet, glowing swords in their hands. The others lay dead, blasted by the magical fire.
Disbelief and horror was etched upon the countenance of every witness. The slain elves were some of the finest fighters, the greatest mages! If they were not worthy, who could be?
And yet, the answer stood before them. One hundred and seventy-two elves slipped moonblades into the empty scabbards on their belts and stepped away from the circles. Their faces were alight, not with pride, but with awe.
The High Mage spoke again. “Those clans who wish to attempt a second claim, may do so now. First, remove your dead, and remember them with pride. There is no dishonor in their death. It is given to some creatures to fly, others to swim, and still others to hunt. Not every elf is gifted with the potential to reign, and not every clan carries the seed of kings and queens.”
It was apparent, however, that most of the elves present felt that their clan was destined for this honor. Every one of the failed clans sent members forward to try again. This time, only two elves were left standing.
“Moon elves,” murmured Claire Durothil, a young mage who stood fourth in line for the honor of establishing her clan’s succession. “All those who carry the blades are of the Moon elf people! What does this mean?”
Her question rippled through the crowd, murmurs that swiftly grew to the fury of a tempest. Finally the Coronal, the elf who sat at the head of Cormanthyr’s council, came forward to quell the angry elves.
“It is true that Ethlando suggested that only Moon elves be given the trial,” he admitted. “He argued that as a race, the Moon people are best equipped by temperament and inclination to deal with the folk of other races. We elves have become the few among the many. Ethlando feared that rulers who sought to blind themselves to the realities of a changing world, would lack the insight and knowledge needed to keep Evermeet secure.”
“And you let us try, knowing all this?” Claire Durothil demanded.
The Coronal sighed. “Would the knowing have changed your choice? Even now, is there any among you who wish to try a third time?”
The silence was long and heavy. Then, ten Gold elves stepped forward to claim their clan’s honor.
Heartsick, the elves watched as all ten were reduced to ash and charred bone.
When the clans carried the remnants of their slain kin away, Claire Durothil stepped forward.
“I claim a moonblade in the name of the Durothil clan. This is my right, by the word of Ethlando. Though I do not profess to understand all that has happened this day, it may well be that the Gold elves are not destined to rule Evermeet. But I am certain that there have been many great and worthy elves in my family, and that there will be many more. Give me this blade, and an elf of my clan will claim it when the time is right.”
The High Mage slipped a sheath over the blade, then handed the muted weapon to the Gold elf. Clair took the sheathed weapon without hesitation or fear, and then returned to her somber clan.
Several more Gold elves followed her example. The Nimesin, the Ni’Tessine, and the Starym all carried away unclaimed blades that day.
Silently, all the elves acknowledged that there was honor in this, for surely a time would come when the sword would chose the proper wielder. And Ethlando did not say that it was impossible that a Gold elf might gain the throne, only that it was unlikely.
Long into the night the rite of claiming went on. Some Moon elf clans claimed several blades—even a few commoners gained that night a magic sword, and with it the right to found a noble house. There was no protest, no contention over the results, for there was no denying the power at work among them. Most of the Gold elves were willing to bide their time, to wait out the succession process. Few of them believed that they were entirely excluded.
When dawn crept over the valley, it found no sign of magic, or death, or the elves whose kindred had earned one or the other. The People had returned to their homes to ponder what had happened. Many years would pass before the rulers of Evermeet were chosen. Yet every elf who now carried a moonblade knew that regardless of how the test of succession played out, a great destiny would be his.
16
The King Sword
(715 DR)
light snow fell upon the forests of Evermeet. Big, downy flakes whirled and spun as they drifted through the winter-bare trees. A few of the flakes clung to Zaor Moonflower’s hair, looking like icy stars amid the twilight sheen of the elf’s luxuriant, dark-blue locks.
But Zaor was oblivious to the beauty of the forest and the striking image he himself presented. He was an elf in the prime of life, and had seen and done much in his two centuries. Though the passing years had left little mark on him, no one who set eyes upon him would mistake him for a callow youth.
For one thing, Zaor was exceedingly tall, and nearly as muscular as a human warrior. At more than a hand-breadth over six feet, he was a giant among elves. His coloring was striking as well, for his hair was the most unusual color known to the Moon elf people—a deep, glowing blue that brought to mind sapphires or st
ormy seas.
And there was nothing of youth in Zaor’s eyes. They were also blue, and flecked with gold, yet their natural luster was dimmed by a deep and profound sadness. Those eyes had seen more battle, more death, more horror, than most elves who could claim his years and more.
Zaor had not been long in Evermeet. He was one of the few survivors of Myth Drannor’s fall who had sought refuge in the island kingdom.
But for Zaor, Evermeet brought no peace. Even a year after that final siege, his ears still echoed with the cries of dying Myth Drannor, and he still felt the emptiness, like a physical pain, left behind when the mithal that had upheld the wondrous city had been destroyed.
Indeed, Zaor had found nothing but bitterness in the company of the island’s elves. The people of fabled Leuthilspar, with their endless petty intrigues and their deeply entrenched sense of privilege, simply galled him. Perhaps if they had spent a quarter of their hoarded wealth and wasted energies on the defense of Myth Drannor, the city might not have fallen!
But even as the thought formed, Zaor knew there was little truth in it. All his life he had battled the foes who pressed the wondrous city. That was his task, and his calling. He was a ranger, and the forests surrounding Myth Drannor were his to keep. And because he was a ranger, he had not been within the walls during the final siege, and thus he had survived the last, terrible battle.
Zaor Moonflower had survived, but the guilt of his continued existence pressed heavily upon him.
It did not seem right, that he should be alive when so many thousands—indeed, a whole civilization—had died. He felt he could not bear to see such a thing happen again. Yet the elves of Evermeet—who were so like the people of Myth Drannor in their pride and complacency—were as much at risk as that lost city had been.
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