Of course, it would be far more pleasant to observe in person, but this was as near to Evermeet as they could get. The weave Corellon had placed over the island barred all evil gods from entering. But it did not keep the drow from using the gate that Kymil Nimesin had so conveniently arranged, or prevent the passage of the deadly creature of Malar: the elf-eater.
The gate. Many elements had gone into this attack, but it was the gate that dealt the deadliest blow. A wonderful thing, this art of Circle-singing—using spell-song to combine many magical effects into one—especially when one considered the ingenious use Kymil had made of it. Under his direction, the circle-singers had gathered the power of all the gates to Evermeet, combining them into a single gate, effectively cutting the island off from outside magical interference.
It was a masterful plan, and Lloth was quite impressed with Kymil Nimesin. The Gold elf had nurtured his plans for years, gathering and training every talented elven spell-singer he could find. If only there were a way to imbue her drow followers with such patience! How quickly they would rule all of Aber-toril!
Well, they would soon overrun Evermeet, and for the time being she could content herself with that. No doubt Malar thought that his creature would destroy them, as well, thus giving him a victory over his dark-elven ally. Lloth, however, was ever alert to the possibility of treachery. To be on the safe side, she’d tried feeding a few of her faithful drow to the elf-eater, and found the monster had no appetite for them. Malar would disperse his creature soon enough, when there was no more sport to be had on Evermeet.
She glanced over at Malar. Although he kept an eye on the image in the scrying bowl, he paced in a short, restless path. That made Lloth nervous as well. Her drow had done well—they had lured many elven fighters into the tunnels with the coming of day, where they could slaughter them at their leisure—but she needed Malar’s elf-eater to truly destroy Evermeet. The god was uncomfortable in these tunnels. If he left and took his fine toy with him, the game would be over before it was finished.
“There is fine hunting down here,” she observed, her crimson eyes gleaming as she watched two drow slowly slice the flesh from the bones of an elven warrior. Wherever they looked, the tunnels were filled with battles.
Malar snorted, unimpressed by the spectacle. “I am no mole to tunnel through the soil in search of worms!”
Before Lloth could retort, the image in her scrying pool changed. A new fighter, an enormous elf maid thrumming with godly power, had entered the battle. Almost before Lloth could absorb this threat, the warrior maid neatly netted the elf-eater. Before her horrified eyes, elf maid and elf-eater disappeared.
Malar saw this, as well. The Beast Lord’s fearsome roar reverberated through the tunnel, shaking rocks loose from the tunnel walls and causing a brief, startled pause in the drow’s genocidal fun.
Lloth recovered quickly from the shock, her nimble mind seeing a possibility in even this. “A new avatar,” she said excitedly. “But not an avatar of any of the gods I know. This is the spirit of a powerful mortal elf—therefore there is but one place it can go. Surely, the elf maid will bring the creature to Arvandor!”
“And where the elf-eater goes, so we might follow,” Malar said, beginning to understand. “But we are two against the many of the Seldarine.”
“It matters not,” she said. “All we need do is watch and enjoy as the elf-eater rampages! I imagine that the spirits of the faithful departed will be as tasty morsels to your monster. If we are lucky, perhaps it will devour a god or two, as well!”
“We go,” the god agreed. He snatched up Lloth’s wrist in one enormous paw, dragging her with him as he followed his creature. The gods disappeared from the tunnel, taking the battle to yet another level.
In a chamber of the palace, Maura squirmed in the chair, restless even in her hard-won sleep. She had come to the palace along with the slumbering body of the princess Ilyrana, and she sat at the elf woman’s bedside. But the terrible days of battle had taken a toll, and Maura had drifted into troubled slumber.
Even in sleep, the battle followed. In a strange dream, Maura watched as the warrior elf maid strove desperately to stop the monster that had attacked Corellon’s Grove. The creature, bits of silvery web still clinging to it, thundered through a forest more beautiful than any Maura had seen and into a city of such wonder that even Leuthilspar paled. On and on the creature went, pausing only to snatch up the gallant elves who stayed behind to fight so that most of their people might flee. She watched as the creature advanced on a tall, blue-haired male elf. His resemblance to Lamruil struck her like an arrow to the heart.
The sleeping woman’s palm itched for the feel of her own sword, though she knew there was little she could do against such a monster. Indeed, even the warrior maid did not fare well. She screamed a single word and threw herself between the blue-haired elf and the approaching monster. Maura flinched as the warrior maid went flying, struck aside with devastating force by one of the elf-eater’s flailing tentacles. The elf maid got up, but blood dripped from her forehead where she had been cut in her fall.
A terrible, shrieking roar jolted Maura from her sleep. Instinctively she knew that this was not part of her dream, and she dashed to the window and looked out into the sky.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of terrible creatures winged their way over the city, blocking out the sun with their loathsome bodies. She watched, near despair, as a swarm of them covered an airborne gold dragon. The battle was fierce and terrible, but in the end, the dragon was overcome. It plunged to the ground, its wings utterly gone, eaten away by the unnatural creatures that had attacked it. The dragon hit the island with a force that shook the palace—and no doubt leveled a good part of the city, Maura noted grimly.
She scanned the sky, trying to make some small sense of this strange attack. Here and there groups of the creatures, looking like dark, seething clouds against the sky, suggested that the rest of the dragonriders—even the aged Guardians released to combat the pirate fleet—might soon meet the same fate.
Maura drew a long, shuddering breath and turned away from the window. She fully expected to die this day, and she took comfort in two things: that Lamruil was safely away, and that the terrible slaughter of the elves she had just witnessed was only a dream.
She glanced down at the sleeping princess, and her heart thudded painfully. Ilyrana’s white hair, in which usually glistened the pale colors of an opal, was dark and matted with blood, and on her forehead was a gash identical to the one dealt the warrior elf maid.
The single word that the elf maid warrior shouted now made perfect sense, as did the blue-haired male’s resemblance to Lamruil. Maura spun on her heel and ran from the chamber. If anyone could do anything about this new horror, it would be the queen.
And even if the queen could not act, she had a right to know.
All over Evermeet, the elves struggled to shake off the terrible lethargy that had fallen over them with the destruction of the Towers. Nearly all the High Magi of Evermeet had gathered in the Towers of the Sun and Moon, or in the Sumbrar Tower in the island east of Leuthilspar. These magi had woven a powerful web of magic that upheld the elven fighters and strengthened the island’s legendary defenses. This web had not simply collapsed, though that alone would have been catastrophic. The Towers had been reduced to dust, the magi slain. The resulting blow to the Weave, and thus to all of them, was staggering.
Amlaruil stood in her council chamber, gazing out over the stunned and grieving elves who stood motionless in the city’s streets, too stunned even to react to the appearance of the unnatural horrors that suddenly filled the skies.
“Darkenbeasts,” she whispered, for her informants had been her well versed in such magics as the human mages fashioned. This was the work of the worst of them, the terrible Red Wizards who ruled distant Thay. Amlaruil did not need to ask what interest such humans might have in Evermeet. They had tried before to broach the island’s defenses; of course they could join in
such a devastating attack, hoping to take as their plunder some of the legendary magical wealth of the elven island. The thought of the elven treasures—the wands and swords, the magical art works, even the Tree of Souls—lent her new determination, and new strength.
Turning to Keryth Blackhelm, she asked that he give the report that had been interrupted by the silent magical explosion. The queen’s calm demeanor seemed to hearten her advisors; even so, the news that the Silver elf gave was dire.
The northern shore had fallen to creatures from Below. The dragonriders of the Eagle Hills were making some headway against the sahuagin and scrags that swarmed up the Ardulith, but most of the centaurs and other forest creatures had fallen in battle. A mixed force of humans and elves had landed on Siiluth and were marching westward to Drelagara.
“Elves?” she asked sharply. “There were elves among the pirates? And they broke through our defenses?”
Keryth grimaced. “Yes, my lady, but not in any manner that we anticipated. The elven ships with elven crews, those that we thought were fleeing the invading force, were part of it. The holds of these boats were stacked with warriors and spellcasters, eager for battle. Even with the help of the lythari and the moon-horses, the people of Drelagara are having a hard time of it.”
The queen took this in. “And the other ships? There were six, I believe.”
“We do not know,” he admitted. “Apparently the ships split up after what was left of our navy helped them through the magical defenses. Our ships are still offshore, fighting what remains of the pirate fleet. The decoy fleet,” he added in deep self-disgust.
“You could not have known, my friend,” Amlaruil said. “None of us expected such treachery from our own. We should have.”
“There is more,” the war leader said. “Three of these ships are approaching Leuthilspar. The leader is close enough to send messages through flag speech.”
Amlaruil frowned. “The Starwing fleet could not stop them?”
“We did not send the Starwing ships against them,” Keryth said softly. “I did not think you would wish it. The ship has sent word: Prince Lamruil himself is on board.”
Kymil Nimesin turned an impatient stare upon the young human sailor. The youth was nearly dancing with ill-contained excitement. This annoyed Kymil. He had endured young Kaymid’s enthusiasms for about as long he intended to. Once the battle for Evermeet was over, this wretched boy would be the first human to fall to Kymil’s blade.
“You have something to say?” he asked coldly.
“The elf prince is asking to see you,” Kaymid said importantly.
This interested Kymil. Young Lamruil had not spoken so much as two words to his former swordmaster since the day that he had stumbled into Kymil’s trap. Glum and resentful, he had been the very picture of the spoiled, thwarted boy-prince.
The Gold elf followed Kaymid down to the hold, where Lamruil sat on the floor of his cell. For a moment Kymil gazed at the young elf, taking pleasure in Lamruil’s wasted appearance. During the ocean voyage, they had given him just enough food and water to keep him alive. But even though the young elf was far thinner and less hale than he had been at the beginning of the voyage, he still outmassed most elves that Kymil could name.
“Well?” he inquired. “What do you want?”
Lamruil looked up, and the grim intensity in his blue eyes set Kymil back on his heels. “My life,” the prince said coldly. “And I am willing to pay any price to have it.”
Kymil was inclined to believe him. “What have you to offer? You are still a useful pawn to me—a pawn that if properly played, might be traded for a queen.”
“You underestimate Amlaruil,” the prince said flatly. “There is nothing she would not sacrifice for Evermeet’s sake. Since she and I do not see eye to eye on many matters, I doubt she would shed many tears over me.” He cast a derisive smile at Kymil. “Simple kidnapping, Lord Kymil? Expecting the queen to ransom me at the expense of her kingdom? I must say, that is by far the weakest part of your otherwise excellent plan.”
There was some truth in that, and it galled Kymil. “And what would you have me do?”
“Free me,” Lamruil said. “We will stage a mock battle on the deck of this ship, in full view of those who watch from Leuthilspar’s docks. Then I, the victorious prince, will escape ashore, valiantly bringing with me the only other elf who survived the fight.”
“Me, I suppose,” Kymil said coldly, though in fact he rather approved of the prince’s line of thought. “And then?”
“Then I will demand the queen’s abdication. I have that right,” he said calmly, holding up a hand to still Kymil’s sarcastic laughter. “I am the heir, I am of age. All I need do is draw the sword of Zaor, and it is done.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Lamruil smiled coldly. “You think I cannot draw the sword and live? Very well—say that I don’t live. You have still accomplished what you set out to do. Every member of the royal family on Evermeet will be dead.”
“But for Amlaruil herself.”
“Ah. I forgot to tell you that part,” the prince said. “I will kill her myself, before I draw the king sword.”
“You would never get close enough,” Kymil sneered.
“Who said I intended to use a weapon?” retorted the prince. “I know my mother, and I know her absolute devotion to Evermeet. If we present her with a task, a dangerous spell that only she could cast, she would do it. Even if it meant her death.”
“Such as?”
“The other ships,” Lamruil said bluntly. “We tell her where they are bound. Amlaruil has the power to cast a spell that can teleport a single ship away from Evermeet. She might be able to manage to send two away, and live. But more?” The prince shook his head. “She will try, all the same.”
“And I lose my ships.”
“And gain a kingdom,” the prince said. “How many of the elven survivors of Evermeet would follow you if your hand was raised against their beloved queen? Zaor might forgive you. But never Amlaruil. No, we go in playing the part of heroes. Amlaruil dies defending her people. I am no king,” he said negligently, “nor do I wish to be. Nor, for that matter, will the people of Evermeet embrace me. Ill happily set aside the sword of Zaor—and take myself off to the mainland for a life filled with soft women and hard cider. It would suit me far better than a crown. Then you, in whatever guise you choose, will be free to restore the Council of Elders. We both get what we want.”
Kymil stared at the prince, astonished by the grim tone, the venal light in his eyes. He had known Lamruil was a self-centered wastrel, but he hadn’t thought him capable of such focused thought, even in the effort of self-preservation. He would test just how far the prince was willing to go.
“Convince me,” Kymil suggested. “Tell me more.”
“You have a spelljammer. I heard the others talking. Do not send it in until the island is subdued. Sumbrar has defenses that would bring it down with ease.”
“The Guardians. The sleeping dragons have already been released, and most have exchanged their age-long slumber for a more permanent one. The same goes for the dragonriders. I am not troubled by the thought of a few pegasi.”
“There is a Starwing fleet on Sumbrar,” Lamruil said.
“Not so. The fleet was destroyed over five hundred years ago, during the flight of the dragons!”
“True, but it was rebuilt in secrecy. There are ten ships.” Lamruil gave a short, concise description that left Kymil utterly convinced. He had spent enough time on just such a ship to know that only firsthand knowledge could prompt the prince’s words.
The prince continued, describing the defenses of the island and the powers of its queen in such detail that Kymil was nearly convinced.
“Give me one thing more, and we will do as you suggest,” the elf said.
A strange, almost mad light entered the prince’s eyes. “It may be that for one reason or another you may wish to restore the throne of Evermeet. There is a lawful h
eir. The princess Amnestria had a child.”
Kymil snorted. “Don’t remind me! A half-breed bastard is no contender for the throne, by any elf’s measure.”
“Arilyn was my sister’s second child. She had another—a son by a Moon elf of a noble family. No one on Evermeet knows this but me. The prince is not aware of his identity. I can tell you where he is. I can prove he is who I say he is. You can use him or slay him, as suits your needs.”
The Gold elf nodded, convinced of the worth of what Lamruil offered. The truth of it, he already knew. After all, it was a small matter to cast a spell that weighed the truthfulness of what was said.
“We will do as you say,” he said. “But be assured that a dagger will find your heart before one word of betrayal can escape your lips!”
The prince shrugged. “Just let me out of this hole, and I will be content.”
The harbor guards brought Lamruil directly to the queen’s council chamber, as she requested. A spasm of pain crossed her drawn face as her gaze fell upon her son’s wasted form. Even thin as he was, clad in filthy garments and marked with several small wounds from the battle that freed him, he carried himself with an arrogance that brought frowns to the faces of all of Amlaruil’s advisers.
Even so, he was her son, her last child. Amlaruil flew to him and enfolded him in her arms. He embraced her briefly, then took her shoulders and put her away from him.
“There is little time, mother,” he said urgently. “I know where the other four ships are bound. One carries three score Red Wizards, determined to despoil Evermeet’s magical treasures. With them are human ruffians who came for gold and elven wenches. There are more of their ilk on each of the four remaining ships. Human wizards, too, and as many fighters as they could pack into the hold like cordwood. I know what I am asking of you, but I know too that you would wish to know this.”
Amlaruil’s troubled eyes searched his face. “Ilyrana is gone,” she said softly. “If I do this thing, will you take your father’s sword?”
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