Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  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. Claire 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

  A 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 stormy 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.

  Zaor sighed and lowered his gaze to the fresh blanket of snow, willing his mind to imitate the smooth, untroubled surface.r />
  His eyes narrowed as they fell upon a strange mark. The elf dropped to one knee to examine it more closely. The mark was like that of a horse's hoof, but slightly cloven and far more delicate. And it was not so much a print, but a glittering shadow upon the snow.

  Only one creature would leave such a trail. Wonder-a feeling that Zaor had thought was forever banished from his heart-flowed over him in rippling waves. Silently, carefully, the ranger followed the silvery prints deep into the forest and into a snow-shrouded glade.

  The sight before him stole his breath. Two unicorns-wondrous creatures whose coats were so white as to render them nearly invisible against the unblemished snow-broke away from the pristine background. They minced toward the center of the glade, tossing their silvery horns and nickering softly.

  This was wonder enough, but Zaor found his eyes lingering less on the rare and magical creatures than on the pair of elven maidens who awaited the unicorns with outstretched hands.

  Both of the maidens were Moon elves, and by the looks of them initiates of some religious order. They were clad in simple white robes and swathed in white cloaks, and there was a stillness about them that came only with strenuous training and great personal discipline. With their snow-colored garments, milky skin and bright red tresses, they looked like statues fashioned from ice and flame.

  Zaor watched, barely breathing, as the unicorns came up and nuzzled the maidens' outstretched hands. One of them, a tall girl whose hair fell in a riot of tangled curls about her shoulders, sprang onto her unicorn's back.

  "Come, Amlaruil," she chided when the other girl held back. "Why do you wait? The unicorns have accepted us-we can leave behind the stuffy towers for good and all, and seek adventure at last!"

  The other girl's face was wistful, but she shook her head even as she caressed the second unicorn's silky mane. "You know I cannot, Ialantha. This is your dream, and I wish you well of it, but my place is elsewhere." She smiled up at her friend. "Think of me, from time to time, when you are captain of the unicorn riders."

  The girl called Ialantha snorted, as if amused by such visions of grandeur. "All I want is a bit of excitement and an open sky! A year and a day-that is all the service a unicorn will give! And after that, I will be on to the next adventure."

  "We can set our feet upon a path, but we cannot always choose where that path might take us," Amlaruil said seriously. She reached out and patted her friend's fey mount. "I think you have found not only a year's partner, but a destiny."

  Ialantha's eyes widened. "You have seen this for me, then?"

  The girl hesitated. "There is need for unicorn riders," she said carefully. "I think this unicorn has chosen well. You could ride before you could walk, and you were reaching for a sword before you could do either! No one in the Towers rides or fights as well as you. Who better than you to revive the old ways, and to train and command the swordmaidens?"

  "Who indeed?" Ialantha echoed teasingly. Her face turned serious, and she extended her hand to her friend. The girls clasped wrists with the gravity of warriors.

  Ialantha lifted her white hood to conceal her bright hair, and then tapped her heels against the unicorn's sides. The creature reared, pawing the air with hoofs as delicate as the falling snow. With the speed of thought, the unicorn and her rider melted away into the forest. The second, riderless unicorn followed like a white shadow.

  After a moment, Amlaruil turned toward the thicket where Zaor crouched. "You might as well come out now," she said in a clear, bell-like voice. "I will do you no harm."

  Zaor's first response was mingled surprise and chagrin that the elf maid perceived his presence so easily. Then the irony of her remark struck Zaor as rather amusing. The girl seemed to be little more than a child, and slim as a birch tree and by all appearances fragile as a dream. She might make half his weight, had she been soaking wet.

  But he rose and entered the clearing, stopping several paces from her as propriety demanded.

  He managed a bow that he thought would not disgrace him too badly. "Zaor Moonflower, at the etrielle's service," he said, using the polite term for an elven female of honorable birth and character.

  The girls' large, blue eyes lit up like stars. "Oh! Then we are kin! I am of the Moonflower clan, also. How is it we have never met?"

  Zaor managed, just barely, to hold her gaze. "I am recently come from Cormanthyr."

  He steeled himself for the usual barrage of questions, or the formal expressions of regret, or the words of acclaim lavished upon the "heroes" of Myth Drannor. To his relief, the girl merely nodded. "That explains it, then. My name is Amlaruil."

  "I heard."

  "I know." Her sudden smile lent her face such beauty that Zaor had to drop his eyes to keep from staring. A moment before, she had seemed nothing but a skinny child with long red-gold plaits of hair and huge, serious eyes. The fleeting smile transformed her into the reflection of a goddess.

  Zaor took a moment to compose his thoughts. "You spoke of a Tower."

  "Yes. I am a student of High Magic at the Towers of the Sun and Moon. They are not far from here."

  The ranger frowned. "I have never seen these towers."

  "Nor will you, unless you know where to look." The girl laughed at the aggrieved expression that crossed Zaor's face. "Do not take offense-the magic that shields the towers hides them even from the birds and wood nymphs. But rest assured, you will see them one day."

  Zaor's brows lifted at this odd pronouncement. There was a strange note in her voice as she spoke these last few words, an abstracted tone that had been missing a moment before.

  "You sound very certain of this. Can you read portents, then?" he asked, thinking to humor the child.

  "Sometimes," she said in all seriousness. "It is easier to do if the person carries an object of power. I do not know why that is, but it is so."

  Her eyes fell to the sword on Zaor's hip. Although sheathed, the ornate hilt with its crowning moonstone gem was clearly visible. Before Zaor could divine her intent, she reached out and ran her fingertips over the smooth, milky surface of the stone.

  With an oath, Zaor jerked away. No one could safely touch such a sword but the wielder-surely the foolish child knew that!

  But apparently she did not. Amlaruil regarded him in surprise, her eyes wide. After a moment Zaor realized that she had gone unscathed. The slender fingers that by all rights should have been blackened by a blast of killing magic were as smooth and white as the winter snow.

  For some reason, this shook Zaor almost as deeply as the thought that the girl had come to harm through his carelessness. "You should never touch such a sword," he told her sternly. "This is a moonblade, and can mean death to any but he who wields it."

  Amlaruil's eyes grew still wider. "A moonblade. Oh, then that explains…" Her voice trailed off uncertainly and her gaze slid to one side.

  "You really did see something, didn't you?" he asked, intrigued.

  The girl nodded, her face grave. "This is the king sword. Who rules this sword, will also rule Evermeet."

  Zaor stared at her, not wanting to believe the words she spoke with such uncanny certainty. Yet there was something about the girl that lent weight to her words. He believed her, even if he did not wish to do so.

  "There is nothing of the king about me," he said dully. How could there be? It was the final duty of any elven king to die for his people. Myth Drannor lay dead, and he stood hale and unblemished, half a world away in the glades of Evermeet. "My children, perhaps, might someday serve- that is, if their mother can make up for my lacks."

  "Perhaps," she echoed in a tone that gave away nothing of her thoughts.

  Zaor shook aside the girl's troubling pronouncement and turned to something that lay closer to his ken. "You touched the sword without harm. How can that be?"

  Suddenly, Amlaruil did not look so much a child as she had a moment before. A faint flush stained the snow of her cheeks. "As to that, I cannot say," she murmured.

  "Cannot,
or will not?" Zaor pressed.

  Again, that incandescent smile. "Yes," was all she said.

  The elves joined in a burst of laughter. It seemed to Zaor that suddenly the burden that had weighed down his heart for so long was easier to bear.

  After the shared laughter faded, they stood gazing at each other for a long moment. Amlaruil was first to break the silence. "I must return to the Towers. I have been away too long."

  "We will meet again, though?"

  The girl hesitated, as if not sure how to answer. Then slowly, deliberately, she reached out and curled her fingers around the hilt of Zaor's sword.

  And then she was gone, disappearing into the forest as quickly and silently as the elusive unicorns.

  In the white silence of the woodland glade, Zaor bowed his head and struggled to absorb what had just happened. In the passing of a few moments, his life had been utterly changed. One burden-the terrible load of guilt and grief-had been lifted; another, still greater burden had taken its place.

  Amlaruil's vision for him was beyond anything Zaor had ever imagined. Even so, he found he had no desire to shy away from it.

  The ranger turned and headed southward with a swift and determined stride. All that he had seen and suffered, all the lessons he had learned to his sorrow, he would share. He would find a way to make the complacent elves of Leuthilspar hear what he had to say. Evermeet would not suffer the same fate as Myth Drannor, not while Zaor Moonflower lived.

  Even as he made this silent vow, Zaor drew the moonblade-the king sword-from its sheath. He was not surprised to note that a new rune was etched upon the blade. Amlaruil's vision was now his own, and the magical sword he carried had responded with the needed power. No longer did he fear or doubt the destiny before him.

  Who ruled the sword, would also rule Evermeet.

  Keryth Blackhelm shook his head. "It won't work, Zaor," he said ruefully. "I'm too young-I've yet to reach my first centennial! Nor am I nobly born. By the gods, I can't even name my father, much less trace my ancestors back into Faerie and beyond! The Leuthilspar guard will have nothing to do with the likes of me, and you know it well."