Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  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 Faerun'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 image 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 mountain-top, 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 mov
e 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

  The 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.

  And so it was that she who had been Araushnee had come to possess everything that she once thought she wanted: power beyond imagining, a kingdom of her own, gods kneeling before her, mighty creatures trembling at her whims.

  Lloth stifled a yawn.

  It was all so predictable, the Abyss. She had conquered, and she reigned, and she was so bored that she had once or twice been tempted to try to strike up a conversation with some of Kiaranselee's undead minions. She had power, but found it did not satisfy her cravings.

  "I curse you, Corellon, you and yours," Lloth murmured, as she had so often over the many centuries that had passed since her banishment.

  The darkly beautiful tanar'ri sank onto a throne which her minions had carved from a giant, desiccated mushroom. Propping her chin in her hands, she once again pondered her fate.

  None of the power that Lloth had gained in the Abyss could amend for her lost status. She was no longer even a goddess, but a tanar'ri. Her form was more comely and her power was greater than most of the creatures that inhabited this place, but she was not what she had been. No amount of power in this gray, mushroom-infested plane would erase Corellon's unpaid debt.

  Suddenly Lloth sat upright, her crimson eyes blazing with inspiration. Of course! Now that power was hers, she would reclaim her godhood. The way to this goal had been blazed by Ghaunadar himself; the Ancient One was seeking new worshippers so that he might rebuild his power. Why could she not do the same?

  As a tanar'ri, Lloth could never return to Olympus. Even as a goddess, she might never amass the power or find the opportunity to enter Arvandor as a conqueror. But she would strike at the Seldarine where she could.

  She would destroy their mortal children.

  Centuries had passed since the death of the great mage Durothil, and the passing of master dragonrider Sharlario Moonflower into Arvandor. Their descendants no longer spoke of Faerie, except as a place of legend. Faerun was truly their home, and they had built a wondrous culture that owed to all the worlds from which their ancestors had fled.

  Some of the forest folk lived as they had for centuries untold, but many elves drew away from the ways of the forest to build themselves cities that rivaled even fabled Atorrnash for splendor. Hidden among the trees and clinging to the mountains were marvelous dwellings of crystal and moonstone, streets paved with precious stones, and communities of artisans, scholars, musicians, mages and warriors. These elves produced marvelous works of beauty, magical weapons, and dazzling skills in the fighting arts.

  In these centers of learning, the art of High Magic thrived. The Circles were established-small bands of powerful High Magi who together could cast spells beyond the imagining of any solitary elf. Each Circle was based in a tower, which quickly became the focal point of any elven community. One of the more immediately useful functions of the towers was the ability to send communications swiftly from one elven enclave to another, preventing the communities from becoming isolated. Despite the growing problems with the Ilythiiri in the south, it appeared as if the People of Faerun would achieve remarkable unity.

  But this very wealth and power drew many new dangers upon the elves. Dark-elven raiders from the south foraged northward, attacking trade routes and farming villages. Some of these raiders settled in the far north, hiding in caves by day, and coming out to strike under the cover of darkness.

  Dragon attacks continued, though between High Magic and the dragonriders, the elves were showing promise of supplanting the dragons as Faerun's dominant race. But it was not the powerful magic of the south or the might of dragons that the elves had most to fear: Their most dangerous enemy had become the orcs.

  For many years, orcs attacked like the rogue wolves that from time to time stole a goat from a remote pasture. The orcs struck at the elves whenever they happened upon them. Most elven communities, even tiny farm settlements, were more than equipped with arms and magic-and the skills in both-to turn back these occasional attacks.

  But orcs were nothing if not prolific. From time to time
, their numbers grew so great that their clans spilled out of their highland lairs to form a horde that swept like locusts over the land, devoured everything before them.

  In the autumn of the Year of Singing Sirens, the orcs marched in numbers greater than the elves had ever seen. They overran the northland plains and plunged deep into the forests. The city of Occidian-that great center of elven music and dance-was conquered and the orcs pressed on to the very gates of the ancient city Sharlarion.

  At that time, Durothil's Keep was held by the archmage Kethryllia. This warrior-mage was also known as Amarillis, the high elven word for "Flame-Flower"-partly for her red-haired beauty, and partly for the searing anger she loosed in battle.

  Like many of the elves, Kethryllia studied many arts during her long life, but concentrated her skills upon a single great work. For decades, this work had been the forging and enchanting of a great sword. Just two nights past, in a rite that gathered starlight and magic upon the mountaintop plateau known as Dragonriders' Leap, she had completed her task. For years, the mystics had been predicting that this sword, Dharasha-"destiny"-would play an important role in the history of the People.

  What better task than this, the protection of their city?

  In her tower, Kethryllia heard the desperate murmurs of her people, and their frantic preparation for war. Their skill at arms was their last defense, for the Tower of Magi stood empty and silent. The Circle had bonded with their distant brother and sister magi of Occidian's Tower to aid and support their defense of that city. But the orcs and their unknown allies had inexplicably broken through the magical wards, and the Occidian Tower had been shattered. The magical backlash had slain the High Magi of Sharlarion, as well. Thus it was that the elves were left to depend on their weapons and battle-magic, and upon those whose skills in such matters were proven and renown. Kethryllia Amarillis was chief among these-songs and legends of her exploits followed her like shadows.