Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  Although he was happy to be among the elves once again, Durothil did not like the changes that had taken place in his absence, nor was he entirely comfortable with the new place the People had found for themselves.

  The magic that his people had cast on distant Tintageer had been a true Seeking. It had found a place of power, a dancing hill similar to the sacred site on their homeland. For many hundreds of years, a clan of forest-dwelling elves had gathered starlight and magic on the mountaintop plateau. Many of these fey People had perished one midsummer in the fiery breath of the red dragon who called himself Master of the Mountains. Those that remained welcomed the newcomers to their forest home. And the elves of Tintageer, the proud, golden people from the ancient southlands of Faerie, had mingled with these wild folk.

  To Durothil's relief, not all took to native ways. Some of the elves kept proudly to themselves and strove to plant the seeds of their magic, arts, and culture in the forest soil. Amazingly enough, one of these elves was Sharlario Moonflower.

  The red-headed warrior had survived and had wed a Faerie woman-a devout priestess of Sehanine Moonbow. Between them they had produced a roisterous brood of young elves, most of whom had inherited their father's pale skin and flaming hair. Almost without exception, members of the burgeoning new clan followed their mother in the veneration of the Goddess of Moonlight. Already the others were referring to them as "Moon elves."

  As for Sharlario, he often spoke of the avariel, the winged elves who had rescued him, and the wonders of the Aerie, the magical, hidden mountaintop realm to which they had spirited him. He told of the service he had lent the avariel in fighting the red dragon and banishing him from the northern mountains. The avariel were but one of many races of elves in this new land, Sharlario claimed, and they had told him of other clans that peopled the land. There were many elves, scattered throughout the forest, or living in the hot southlands, and even abiding in the depths of the distant sea.

  This experience had shaped Sharlario's destiny-or, perhaps, confirmed it. On his native Faerie he had been a merchant who sailed the seas, gathering news and bringing goods to distant elven lands. He was a wanderer still, for the tales told him by the avariel had set his imagination aflame. Nothing would satisfy him until he could see with his own eyes all of Faerun. He and his children often left to explore their new world, searching for adventure, and seeking out others of their kind. The stories they brought back with them were wondrous tales of the sort that would be passed down from parent to child like titles or treasure.

  The elves enjoyed Sharlario's stories, but few believed his account of the avariel. None of the forest folk had ever encountered such beings, and the concept of winged elves seemed too fanciful to credit. Not even Sharlario ever again caught sight of one, except in the remembered dreams of his revery. This did not keep him from claiming that the avariel continued to watch over him.

  Of all the elves, only Durothil did not tease the Moon elf adventurer about his fancies. He, too, had seen the winged elves. But by unspoken agreement, he and Sharlario never spoke of that day-or of little else, for that matter.

  When Durothil returned after his long and unexplained absence, he found that his people had absorbed the ways of the land and no longer needed or wanted a king to rule them. There was no crown for which to contend; nevertheless, Durothil could never rid himself of the feeling that of all the elves of the forest, Sharlario could have been his most formidable challenger for kingship. This he could never forget.

  There was also the matter of his own lost years. Durothil understood the Moon elf's fancies far better than he liked. He never saw Sharlario's guardian avariel, but throughout the seasons that followed, Durothil often caught fleeting glimpses of silvery wolves, unnaturally large in size, following him through the forest like elusive shadows. And for all the years of his life, his revery was haunted by the night song of wolves, and vague memories of the kindliness of the shapeshifting elves who called themselves the Iythari. Those fleeting dreams, and the deep scar that, although hidden by his thick golden hair, stretched across the crown of his skull, were the only things that remained to him from his early years upon Faerun.

  As the years went by, Durothil schooled himself to put the shadows of his past behind him. Since he was not called upon to reign, the elf turned his efforts to the pursuit of Art. Despite fierce headaches that continued to plague him, he excelled in magic. The Weave that he sensed that first day in Faerun came easily to his call, and he grew swiftly in skill and power. He also had a vast, and seemingly instinctual, knowledge of herbs and potions-perhaps a legacy of his lost years-that served him well in this pursuit. Within a few decades, Durothil was accounted the most powerful mage in the northland forests.

  Sharlario Moonflower continued to wander, and he often returned to the forest with word of other elves he had encountered. Some of them were refugees from Faerie or from other worlds. Others were strange, primordial beings who inhabited the trees and the waters and who seemed to have sprung from the land itself. But though many of these wild clans were wary of newcomers, they offered no threat.

  That was well, for war of a different kind was brewing in Faerun.

  In this land of rich magic and vast wild spaces, dragons ruled the skies and contended with each other for ownership of the forests and mountains. Some of these regarded elves as cattle or vermin, to be eaten or destroyed at whim. Many an elven settlement had been lost to their appetites, destroyed as completely as that long-ago midsummer celebration on the dancing hill. The dragon known to the Green elves only as Master of the Mountain was among the most rapacious. Other dragons were more benign lords, though few gave much thought to the smaller creatures who dwelt upon their hard-won lands. They had other, graver concerns: battle with their own kind.

  Fierce and bitter were these wars of conquest, and each spring fewer dragons made the flight to the cool northlands. Determined to achieve supremacy-or perhaps desperate for survival-some of these dragons began to consider the wisdom of seeking new ways.

  As he came to understand this conflict, Durothil glimpsed a path by which he himself might regain the power that was his lost birthright. He began to spend more and more time on the mountaintop where he and Sharlario had encountered the dreaded Master of the Mountains in that distant past. The red dragon had been vanquished and exiled, that was true-but his time would come again. He would rule these mountains as he had once before, and the combined efforts of the elves and Sharlario's avariel would not prevent his return.

  And when that day came, he, Durothil, would climb to power on the wings of a dragonlord.

  7

  Brother Against Brother

  There were some things, Sharlario Moonflower mused, of which one could never tire. The many-colored flames of a driftwood campfire, the pleasure of hearing his firstborn son sing ballads that had been ancient when his ancestors walked upon Faerie, the lure of places not yet seen-such things as these Sharlario counted as blessings from the gods. But though the night was warm and bright with all these blessings, the Moon elf was hard-pressed to keep his mind upon the song that spilled from his son's silver lyre.

  Nearly three centuries had passed since Sharlario had been torn from Faerie and cast upon this distant shore. This was a long time, even as elves reckon such things, and yet the years had passed far too swiftly. Sharlario sighed and tossed another twisted gray stick of driftwood onto the fire. His son, Cornaith, glanced up at the sound. The expression on Sharlario's face stole the song from the young elf s throat. His fingers instinctively muted the strings of his lyre. "You seem weary, father," Cornaith said. "Shall I stop, that you may seek revery?"

  The Moon elf managed a smile. "Weary enough, lad, but I doubt that revery would bring me restful dreams this night. Time grows short-there is too much left undone."

  "Yet we have accomplished much this trip," the young elf said earnestly. "We have been gone from the mountains not quite two years, yet we have established diplomatic ties with no fewer
than ten Green elven settlements. This is remarkable, even by your standards. Surely we have allies enough to meet any challenge that lies ahead."

  "You have never fought a dragon," Sharlario said simply. "I would pray that you never need do so, but that would be akin to praying that winter might not come. Time follows its own course, and the years of the dragon's banishment are nearly spent. The creature will return, of that I have little doubt."

  "And we will turn it back, as you did before," his son said confidently.

  Sharlario did not answer. He seldom spoke of that long-ago battle, other than to assure the other elves that the red dragon had been ousted and would not soon return. Few of them credited his story of the avariel, so there was little reason to speak in depth and detail of his service to the winged elves. Nor would he, for any reason. The price for that victory had been enormous, and the debt was coming due.

  "What credence do you give the tales told of the Ilythiiri?" Cornaith asked as he idly plucked a tune on his lyre. "For my part, I cannot believe that the southern elves are quite as powerful or as ambitious as we've heard tell. Nor can I believe the stories of their supposed atrocities."

  "Believe," proclaimed a female voice from the shadows beyond the campfire.

  Both elves jolted at the sound. Sharlario's hand went instinctively to the dagger at his belt. As he rose cautiously to his feet, he noted the rapt expression in his son's eyes, and understood it well.

  There was nothing that Cornaith loved so well as music, and there was more melody in that single spoken word than in many an air or ballad. Like all elves, Sharlario had a keen love for beauty, and he himself was instinctively drawn to the unseen speaker. Even so, he called to mind a spell that would turn aside magical attack, and he kept his hand at the hilt of his dagger.

  "If you come in peace, you are welcome at our fire," he said.

  The shadows stirred, and an elven female stepped into the circle of firelight. Despite his centuries-long career as a diplomat, Sharlario felt his jaw go slack with astonishment.

  Their visitor was without doubt the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Her face was elven, with its sharp angles and delicately molded features, but her skin was the color of a starless night. She stood taller than any elf he knew-well over six feet-and her long limbs were bare beneath the short, filmy black tunic that, other than a hooded black cloak, was her sole garment. But for the large, silvery eyes that regarded him solemnly, she was midnight in elven form. Sharlario had the oddest feeling that he beheld shadow made substance.

  "I thank you for your welcome, Sharlario Moonflower," the female said in her low, musical voice. Before the Moon elf recovered from the shock of hearing himself addressed by name, the stranger shrugged back her cloak. Hair the color of starlight spilled over her naked black shoulders in gleaming waves. A silvery aura clung to her hair, a wondrous, magical light that could not be explained solely as reflected firelight.

  Cornaith, who had risen with his father to greet their visitor, sank to one knee. His face was suffused with awe, and he gazed at the ebony goddess-for that she certainly was-as if she was the answer to that question which every soul felt, but no words could frame.

  "My lady," he said in deeply reverent tones. "What great thing have we done to be so blessed? How may we serve you? May we know your name?"

  The goddess turned her gaze to the younger elf, and her somber expression softened. "Your song was lovely, Cornaith Moonflower. It drew me here and gladdened my exile. I will answer all your questions, but first, seat yourself." An impish grin flashed onto her face. "That rock you are kneeling on cannot be comfortable."

  When Cornaith hesitated, the goddess sank to the ground and arranged her long limbs in the sort of cross-legged posture that a child might take. She patted the ground beside her in cozy invitation, then quirked a brow at the still-watchful Sharlario.

  "I am known as Eilistraee, the Dark Maiden. I require from you neither reverence nor vigilance," she said softly. "I come as a friend, and in need of friends. Put aside both your weapons and your wonder, and let us talk. There are things that you must know if you intend to confront the Ilythiiri."

  The sadness in her voice smote Sharlario's heart, and he did as she bid. "You spoke of exile, lady," he commented. "Forgive me, but I have never heard of such a thing. From whence are you exiled, and, if I might ask, why?"

  "Most recently, from the southlands," the goddess said. "Many of the elves there worship Vhaeraun. You may not have heard of him-he fell from the Seldarine when Faerie was still young, and few of the People know his name. His followers are like him: proud enough to believe themselves destined for power, and ruthless enough to seize it any way they can. As they grow in number, Vhaeraun grows in might. With each tribe the Ilythiiri enslave, with each city they destroy, Vhaeraun's influence spreads like a bloodstain upon the land. Finally, he became strong enough to achieve that which he most desired."

  The goddess was silent for a long moment, staring into the dying campfire. "Vhaeraun hates me. He bids his worshipers harry and destroy all who follow me. He would see me destroyed, if such were in his power. It is not-quite. Yet I must leave."

  "If it is followers you require, be assured that I do not fear this Vhaeraun," Cornaith began.

  "You should." Eilistraee cast a quelling look at the earnest young elf. "Though he is but a young god, Vhaeraun is vain and malicious, quick to attack those who do not give him homage. And that, you must not do."

  "I had no thought to," the Moon elf said emphatically. "Until this night, I wished nothing more than to follow my mother in her dedication to Sehanine Moonbow."

  Eilistraee shook her head sadly, turning away the worship in the young elf's eyes. "I am honored that you think of me, Cornaith Moonflower, but do not forsake your devotion to Sehanine. No, listen," she said, cutting off his protestations. "The gods experience time in ways you cannot understand. There are some of us who hear echoes of things that have not yet happened in mortal experience. I have foreseen that most of those who follow me will, like me, be exiles, wanderers who will never find their way to the elven homeland."

  "Elves, barred from Arvandor?" Sharlario demanded. "Surely not!"

  The goddess's silver eyes grew misty, as if they turned away from time and place to gaze upon visions no mortal could see. "No, not Arvandor. There will be another homeland. There must be another homeland," she said, her voice becoming more intense. "The storm is coming, Sharlario Moonflower, when the children of one father will become bitter enemies. Thus it was, and thus it will be, again and again. The actions of the gods ripple down through time to touch their People. Soon, mortal elves will know the pain and turmoil that tore the Seldarine asunder."

  "This Vhaeraun must be powerful indeed, to inspire his followers to such conflict," Sharlario said in a troubled voice.

  Eilistraee's silver eyes snapped back into focus. "Not Vhaeraun," she whispered, her beautiful face deeply troubled. "Other dark gods will come, and soon."

  Neither Moonflower elf could think of words to respond to this pronouncement. For a long time the trio sat, their silence colored only by the occasional crackle of the fading embers, the soft chirruping of night creatures, and the murmur of the nearby sea.

  "There is one thing more that you must know and fear," the goddess said at last. "High Magic, which brought you to this place, can be a wondrous thing. It can also be used for great evil. You will find this to be true, if you visit Atorrnash. You who have never had reason to fear magic must learn to be wary of it and those who wield it."

  "Atorrnash?" ventured Cornaith.

  "It is a great city, not quite three days' travel to the south. There you will find great riches, powerful magic, and those who offer alliance in your battle against the dragons. Consider such gifts carefully-some carry a hidden price."

  The goddess rose abruptly, and lifted her eyes to the sky. Overhead the moon shone full, and beams of its light filtered through the canopy of trees that sheltered the elves' cam
p. Eilistraee reached out and touched a finger to a shaft of light, and her face took on the intense concentration of one who listens to distant voices.

  "I have overstayed myself. There is more you should know, but I cannot linger. Beware." With this, she leaped onto the shaft of moonlight and was gone. A faint radiance lingered in the air for a moment and then disappeared like a snuffed candle.

  It seemed to Sharlario that never had a darkness seemed so oppressive as the one Eilistraee's departure left behind. Despite the bright moon and the glow of the dying campfire, despite the company of his well-beloved son, the elf felt a desolation more poignant than anything he had ever known.

  He glanced at Cornaith, and read in his son's eyes a pain that was like bereavement. All of which explained, he supposed, why the gods seldom appear to their People-they knew the void their absence left behind.

  Sharlario rose abruptly and kicked the fading embers into ash. "Come," he said. "We have nearly three days' travel to Atorrnash."

  The younger elf looked at him in astonishment. "Did you not hear what the goddess Eilistraee said? She warned us of the evil of this place."

  "She also told us of the power. And she did not actually bid us stay away," Sharlario pointed out.

  Since he was an honest elf, he knew these words were meant as much to silence his own unease as his son's protest.

  Before sunset on the third day after their encounter with the Dark Maiden, the Moonflower elves reached the gates of Atorrnash. Cornaith, who had never seen a city of such size and splendor, gazed at everything with such wide-eyed astonishment that his father had to remind him more than once to mind his mission-and his dignity.

  But Sharlario's reproaches were not as sharp as they might have been, for he himself was awestruck by the Ilythiirian city. He had seen on Faerie the wondrous dwellings that elven magic could coax from crystal, or coral, or living trees, the mighty castles that were fashioned of marble and moonstone. Never had he seen anything quite like Atorrnash.