End of Battle, Declaration of War
Sunset had faded from the forest, and the moon was just beginning to rise when Aerdrie Faenya, battered but triumphant, flew back to the battlefields of Arvandor. The day had been long, but it had seen Auril Stormbringer soundly defeated. The price of this defeat had been Auril's eternal banishment from Olympus; henceforth, the goddess of ill weather would have to content herself with bringing winter to mortal worlds. This, of course, would add considerably to Aerdrie's responsibilities-she would have to ensure that the vanquished goddess did not focus her icy wrath upon the elven People. She suspected that many of the defeated and banished gods would take their revenge upon the mortal elves.
As she soared over the battle site, Aerdrie was relieved to note that her brother and sister deities had also triumphed. Most of the invaders had been banished, and the battlefield, though much trampled and bloodied, was nearly quiet. The trees of Arvandor would bear the scars of Auril's storms for some time to come, but all the forest deities would join in healing and cleansing the forest. Already the huntress daughter of Corellon was perched high in one such tree, no doubt saying healing magic over the blasted limbs.
The goddess swooped down toward the soon-to-be-victorious Seldarine, her thoughts already upon the celebration ahead. Her gaze fell upon young Eilistraee just as the grim-faced huntress loosed a black arrow. With horror, Aerdrie saw the arrow streak toward Corellon Larethian. It pierced the shining mail that covered the elf lord's chest and sent him hurtling backward.
A shriek like that of a rising wind tore from Aerdrie's throat. It did not occur to her that Eilistraee's act could be anything other than treachery, for all the Seldarine knew of the Dark Maiden's skill with the bow.
The goddess of air flung out both hands. From her fingers burst a tempest whose fury would have shamed Auril. The blast of wind struck the young huntress with a force that hurled her from the tree. Eilistraee plummeted down, winter-dry branches snapping beneath her as she fell. She hit the ground hard and lay still.
Sparing the fallen goddess not so much as a glance, Aerdrie alighted and hurried over to join the surviving members of the Seldarine, who were clustering around their fallen leader. They all fell back, however, to allow Araushnee passage, and watched in respectful silence as the goddess knelt at Corellon's side to mourn her fallen love. "He is not dead," Hanali Celanil said suddenly. Araushnee lifted her tear-streaked face from her hands and affixed an accusing gaze upon the goddess of love and beauty. "How can you, of all the gods, mock my grief? My beloved is gone!"
"The Dark Maiden's arrows could not slay him," said Hanali, this time more emphatically.
"I do not know why Eilistraee would do such a thing, but I do know that her aim is certain. Never once has she missed her mark," Araushnee countered.
Without wasting time in further speech, Hanali pushed aside the elf lord's consort and knelt in her place. Corellon's protective mail parted instantly before her touch. "It is as I thought," she murmured, studying the large arrowhead partially lodged in the elf lord's chest. "Eilistraee was hunting ogres-this arrow is big enough and strong enough to punch through the beasts' hides, but it's too large to slip between Corellon's ribs. It is lodged there. Help me," she said, turning to Aerdrie.
Between the two of them, the goddesses removed the arrow from the elven god and tended his wounds. But Corellon did not revive. There was about him an aura of immobilizing despair, as if the evil that he'd fought throughout that long day had chilled him deeply, leaving him frozen within himself. The other deities began to chant softly, speeding the elf lord's healing with their gathered power. Even Araushnee rallied from her grief to produce a shining vial from the folds of her gown.
"Water from Elysium, infused with healing herbs from the heart of Arvandor. It will help restore him," she said, and lifted the vial to Corellon's lips.
In truth, Araushnee had prepared for this eventuality. She'd had ample evidence of late of how tenaciously her "love" clung to his immortal life. The potion in her vial might not be deadly enough to kill the wounded god, but it would certainly slide him deeper into slumber. With a little luck-and perhaps some repeated doses-Corellon would never awaken. And if the nature of his deathlike slumber should ever be discovered, Araushnee would disclose a simple but devastating truth: It was Eilistraee who had gathered the herbs and brewed the potion. The young huntress had prepared the deadly poison not for her use, but for the war arrows of mortal elves; however, none but she and Araushnee knew this. Since Eilistraee was beyond speech and would be for some time to come-if not for all time-Araushnee felt confident that this particular aspect of her plot was beyond discovery. And then, once Corellon's power was hers to command, she would-
A ray of moonlight, sharp as a stiletto, struck with lightning speed, shattering the goddess's dream of victory and dashing the vial from her ebony fingers. Startled, Araushnee fell back from Corellon and shrieked out a curse, one so vile that it shocked the chanting elven deities into silence.
The attacking moonlight backed away, softened, and spread into a mist-and then took on a form that by now was all too familiar to Araushnee.
"Sehanine!" shrieked the dark goddess. She rose and rounded on her son, who'd been standing at her shoulder like a hovering raven awaiting a chance to feed. Vhaeraun took an instinctive step backward.
"You idiot!" she screamed, her face contorted with rage and frustration. "It is too soon, too soon! Another day, and I would have had so much power that Sehanine could have done nothing. But you-you have destroyed us both!"
She raised one hand to strike the youth, but Hanali Celanil seized her wrist with a strength astonishing for one so delicate. "Enough! Your own words raise grave questions, Araushnee, and be sure that we will find answers. Be mindful that the council that will consider these questions stands here in witness to what you have said and what you do," the goddess said sternly.
Araushnee spun away from her son, violently shaking off the goddess's restraining hand. She glared up into Hanali's exquisite face. "And who will call this council?" she sneered. "No elven god is Corellon's equal in power-and none but he can convene the council. Wake him if you can-or hold your accusing tongue!"
In response, Sehanine Moonbow and Aerdrie Faenya came to flank Hanali. From them all rose a luminous mist, one that coalesced into a single goddess of impossible beauty and daunting power. Araushnee, beholding her, knew with certainty that she beheld her own successor.
"I am Angharradh," the new goddess said in a voice that was wind, moonlight, and music. "From the essence of the three greatest elven goddesses am I born. I am three and I am one-three to ensure that treachery never again enters the heart of a goddess of Arvandor, and one to stand at Corellon's side."
Angharradh stooped and touched her hand lightly to Corellon's forehead, and again to his heart. The wounds closed, and the dark aura that clung to him seemed to part. The elf lord opened his eyes at last. They settled, not on the wondrous Angharradh, but upon Araushnee. His gaze held terrible heartbreak and equally strong resolve.
"A great evil has entered our midst," he said in a dry whisper. "We must confront it now, for the sake of the Seldarine and all our elven children. The Council is convened. Let any who would, speak freely."
And so Sehanine stepped forward and told her story, starting with her suspicions of Araushnee's enchanted tapestry. She spoke of witnessing the battle with Gruumsh, and the shattering of Corellon's sword. She told of her own foolishness in approaching Araushnee, of her capture by the dark goddess's web and her imprisonment at Vhaeraun's hands. In a few terse words she confessed to them how she had escaped and the power she had given up to do so.
The members of the Seldarine were silent as they absorbed Sehanine's dreadful tale. Finally Corellon spoke. "You all have heard the accusations, and you have witnessed disturbing things. You must decide what fate Araushnee has earned."
"Banishment." The word came as if from a single throat.
Corellon looked into Araushnee's malevolent crimson eyes, marveling that he had never truly seen her before. She stood taut and defiant, her fists balled at her sides and her entire slender form quivering from the effort it took her to keep from striking out at him. Where did it come from-this rage, this terrible ambition?
"What is this that you have done?" he said softly. "What could you possibly hope to gain by such actions? If there is anything that you lacked, you had only to speak and I would have given it to you with joy."
"Exactly," snarled Araushnee. "You would have given. True power is not given, but seized! As to your 'great gifts,' I held in my hands the destinies of mortal beings-but was my own ever mine to command? You treated me like some cherished and cosseted possession, while standing in the way of everything I desired!"
"Not so," Corellon told her gently. "Never did I show you such disrespect. I loved you."
"And you will yet live to regret it," she hissed.
The elf lord shook his head in bewilderment and turned to face his son. "And you, Vhaeraun," he added sadly, "though you also have betrayed, you have earned a different fate. You are young, and you merely followed your mother's bidding. It is tragic that this path led you into evil. You must learn to think and live on your own. In time, perhaps, you can redeem yourself and return to the fellowship of Arvandor. But for now, you must find a place on a mortal world alone."
"Not alone," Vhaeraun said firmly. "Eilistraee plotted with us. She deserves to share my fate."
"Eilistraee? I cannot believe this of the girl-" began Sehanine.
"You were not here!" Aerdrie broke in fiercely. "I saw her shoot the arrow that struck down Corellon! And as her own mother points out, the girl has never missed her mark!"
Corellon shook his head. "I cannot believe she would do such a thing!"
"Believe!" hissed Vhaeraun, enraged that Corellon suffered such doubt and anguish at the thought that his precious Eilistraee might have turned against him. He was willing enough to name his son a traitor! Vhaeraun had always hated his younger, favored twin. Now he would have his vengeance.
The young god turned to his mother, his eyes burning with an enmity that set even one such as Araushnee back on her heels.
"You promised me power and honor," he said in a voice meant only for his mother's ears. "But instead, your ambitions have cost me everything. Give me Eilistraee, and I will consider this day's bargain well made."
Araushnee gazed into Vhaeraun's eyes as if into a mirror. After a moment, she gave a barely perceptible nod. "What he says is true," she said loudly. "My children were loyal to me. Whatever fate you assign Vhaeraun should rightfully be shared by Eilistraee. Was it not she who returned to you my enchanted sheath?"
"Where is Eilistraee?" Corellon asked suddenly.
Aerdrie colored deeply, a blue flush that swept over the high sharp bones of her face in a wave of embarrassment and shame. "I was certain she attacked you, my lord, and I struck back. She fell from the tree. She may yet live; I do not know."
"Find her! Tend her," Corellon insisted.
He watched as several of the gods hurried to the tangle of trampled underbrush and fallen limbs. They pulled the girl from the pile and cast healing magic over her limp form.
As soon as her silver eyes opened, they frantically sought for her father. Weak though she was, none of the gods could deter her from going to his side.
Eilistraee stumbled to her knees beside her father. She took the hand he offered her with both of hers and held it to her dark, bloodied cheek. "My arrow-" she choked, unable to say more.
"There is no fault in you, my child," the god said softly. "You did not know what was in the heart of your mother and her son."
Eilistraee's eyes went wide with shock and horror, and lifted to the dark faces of her family. A small cry of pain escaped her as she gazed into their hate-filled eyes.
"What will become of them?" she said at last.
"They are banished, each according to the place they have earned."
The dark goddess nodded and stood. "I will go with my brother."
"It is not needed," Corellon began.
"It is needed," Eilistraee insisted, though tears spilled from her silver eyes. "I am young and my powers are small, but sometimes I can see the shape of things that will come. In some small way, I will provide a balance. This is all I see…" The girl's voice trailed off, and she slumped senseless to the ground by Corellon's side.
For a moment, the god stroked his daughter's bright hair and regarded her still face with a mixture of sorrow and pride. Finally he looked to Vhaeraun. "Eilistraee has chosen. Go now, and take her with you. But know that the day your hand is lifted against her will be the last of your life. This I swear, by all the trees of Arvandor."
Vhaeraun's face twisted with hatred and rage, but he had little choice but to comply. Corellon stood silent as the young god shouldered his unconscious twin and disappeared. Finally he rose to his feet and faced his fallen love. "Araushnee, your sentence has been spoken by the Seldarine. For what you have done, for what you have become, you are declared tanar'ri. Be what you are, and go where you must."
Before the horrified eyes of the elven gods, Araushnee began to change shape. Her slender body grew to monstrous size, and her limbs lengthened, divided, and divided again. Araushnee, the cunning weaver and treacherous lover, had become a spider-shaped monster. Most terrible of all was her face, for although her beauty was not altered, her visage was now stripped of artifice and twisted in hatred.
Shrieking like the damned creature she was, Araushnee advanced upon her former love. The elven gods drew swords and moved forward to stand with their lord.
"Hold!" Corellon ordered in a voice so terrible that it froze the gods where they stood. Slowly, regretfully, he stripped the accursed tapestry from his scabbard and then drew Sahandrian. Sword in hand, he faced Araushnee, alone.
The spider elf dropped into a menacing crouch and began to circle her intended prey. Corellon kept his sword up before him, unwilling to make the first strike. His former consort spoke a few sibilant words, and then spat; a stream of luminous venom streaked toward him. He turned the sword slightly and caught the stream with the flat of the blade. There was a horrible hiss and crackle as the venom met and battled the elven blade's magical defenses. But Sahandrian held, and Corellon's defensive swing sent a spray of scattered droplets back upon Araushnee.
The former goddess screamed in agony as the acidlike poison singed hair from her spidery form and ate deep into the flesh beneath. She reared back on her four hind legs and shrieked out another incantation. Four curved swords appeared, clutched with deadly intent by her four front appendages. The monster came at Corellon in a rush, swords crossing and clashing like two gigantic shears.
Corellon's magical sword flashed and whirled with mesmerizing speed as the elf lord held off the four blades. The face of Araushnee grew hideous with rage as she fought. None of the gods who watched could tell the moment when the last traces of her elven beauty vanished and when she became fully the spider monster. But suddenly she leaped at Corellon's throat, mandibles clacking in hungry anticipation.
The elf lord thrust his sword between the two rending beaks and twisted hard to one side, forcing the spider's attack away from his throat. He leaped back, pulling his sword clear and raising it high to deflect the downward sweep of one of those curving swords. He wanted only to parry the blow, but Sahandrian felt strangely heavy, as if the sword suddenly bore the weight of its own opinions and resolve. The magic weapon dipped closer to his foe and sliced cleanly through the hairy appendage.
With a shriek, Araushnee backed off, shaking the dripping stump. Beyond all reason, she came on again in utter frenzy, three swords flailing. Again Sahandrian struck, and then again. Twice more the clatter of falling swords and the wails of the wounded tanar'ri rang through the watchful forest.
Even now, Araushnee would not concede her defeat. She cast another spell; a thread of magic rose from her body, suspending itself from some invisible hook high above. She swung back and then came at Corellon, dripping ichor as she came, with her remaining sword held out before her like a lance.
The elf lord easily sidestepped the attack. But as the spider swooped past, she seized him with her hind legs and swept him up from the ground. Corellon swung back with her and hit the trunk of a massive tree with numbing force.
The storm-blasted leaves rustled down over the clearing as the monster's beaklike mandible again closed on his throat. But Corellon still held fast to his sword. He brought the weapon up through the tangle of spidery limbs, slicing deep into the bulbous body. Araushnee released him suddenly. With a small, pitiful moan, she swung out of reach on her thread of magic.
Corellon slid along the trunk of the tree and stood on the ground, watching, heartsick, as the creature who had been his love rocked slowly back and forth on her silvery thread, holding her maimed limbs close to her torn body. Despite her horrific form, she looked for all the world like an elven child trying to comfort herself. Just when Corellon thought he could bear no more, the creature's appearance shifted again, and her visage become Araushnee's beautiful, defiant face.
"Kill me," she taunted him in a pain-racked voice. "You will never rid yourself of me, else-even now, my limbs begin to grow anew. But you cannot do it, can you? Even in this you are weak! Kill me if you can, and end it!"
Corellon raised his sword high overhead and hurled it with all his strength. As Sahandrian spun end over end toward the former goddess, the elf lord held his breath and hoped that the sword would obey his will, rather than its own. If Sahandrian followed its inclinations, Araushnee's taunt would surely become reality.
But the elven sword merely sliced through the thread that suspended Araushnee above the forest floor. She fell, shrieking with rage.
She never hit the ground.
A dark, whirling portal opened on the forest, a gate to another plane. Araushnee spun into the portal, her spidery limbs flailing. For many long moments after she disappeared, the Seldarine listened until her voice-cursing them all and swearing vengeance upon all things elven-faded away and was lost in the howl of the Abyssal wind. When all was silent, when the dreadful portal had vanished, the new goddess Angharradh came to Corellon's side. "There was nothing more you could do for her," she said quietly. "Araushnee became what she truly was. She is where she belongs. It is over."
But Corellon shook his head. "Not so," he said with deep sorrow. "The battle for control of Arvandor is over, and Araushnee and her cohorts have lost. But I fear that for the elven People, the struggle has just begun." 14th day of Nightal, 1367 DR
To Lord Danilo Thann of Waterdeep, Harper and bard, does Lamruil, Prince of Evermeet, send greetings.
I read your recent missive with great interest. The task you have undertaken, and your reasons for doing so, are even nearer to my heart than you might suspect.
It might surprise you to learn that you are not entirely unknown to me. I remember you from the sentencing of Kymil Nimesin-although admittedly more for the company you kept than for any other reason. At the time, I was struck by the resemblance between your Harper partner, Arilyn, and my sister Amnestria. (Do not trouble your memory-you will not recall my face. I was cloaked and cowled at the time to disguise my identity. My height and size are such that I am not immediately recognized as elven, and my years among the humans have taught me to move and even speak as you do.)
I did not then know or even suspect that Arilyn was Amnestria's half-elven daughter, nor did I sense that my sister's moonblade is now in Arilyn's able hands. Unfortunately, the actual trial of Lord Kymil was private, else I would have learned of my kinswoman's part in bringing this traitor to justice, and could have made myself known to her, and to you.
My mother the queen recently told me of the great service Arilyn did for the elven people of Tethyr. She also spoke of the honor that Arilyn has done me in naming me her blade heir. I have enclosed with this letter a personal note to her, and ask that you give it to her with my highest regards and humble thanks. I hope to meet you both in the near future, to welcome you belatedly to the Moonflower family-although, regrettably, only on my own behalf.
And now, to the business of your letter. You asked me of Kymil Nimesin. There is much I could tell you. He possessed many of the virtues and qualities that define elven nobility: an ancient and honored bloodline, skill in the arts of warcraft and magic, physical beauty and grace, a wide knowledge of lore and history. Few elves can match him with the sword, and I once considered myself fortunate to have studied with him. He was also touted as a far-traveled adventurer. Years ago, I was flattered when he asked me to accompany him to Faerun for the great work of seeking and recovering artifacts from lost elven lands. At the time, I could not begin to guess what he truly sought.
As a bard, you have surely heard some of the stories told of the lost children of Evermeet. Only two of the thirteen children born to Queen Amnestria and King Zaor are still known to live-this is one of Evermeet's greatest sorrows. It may be that some are yet alive, but Lord Kymil sought to remove all doubt by seeking and destroying all heirs to Evermeet's throne.
Why did he spare me, then? You, Lord Thann, may understand this better than most. Like you, I am the youngest of many children. My reputation among my people is-forgive me-no better than yours. Unlike you, however, I am no thespian who cloaks his talents behind a mask of frivolity. (My mother the queen is kept well informed of the Harpers and their methods, and your work is known to the elves. You, a proven spell-singer, would no doubt find amusing some of the discussion concerning the utter impossibility of a human mage casting elven musical spells.) Unlike you, I am precisely what I appear to be: restless, frivolous, not sufficiently reverential toward tradition, too quick to take action, too fond of feminine charms and ill content to restrict my enjoyment to potential elven princesses, too enamored of the wide world and the many peoples in it-in short, I am hardly a suitable elven prince. Lord Kymil saw in me a moderately useful tool, and no more. No doubt he would have disposed of me, too, once he thought my usefulness had reached an end.
What motivated Kymil Nimesin? This question has preyed upon the minds of elven sages and philosophers since the death of my father the king. What would cause an elven noble of great gifts and good family to turn against a royal clan-not to mention a king chosen by the gods themselves?
This is clearer to me than it is to many elves, for I have traveled widely and, like you, I have loved a woman of mixed blood. My heart has become a harp tuned to play melodies not known to the minstrels of Evermeet. My eyes see that pride isolates the elves from the world-and pits them in endless battle against each other.
As a bard and a scholar of elven lore, you know that the elven races have often been in conflict with each other. During the terrible centuries in which the Crown Wars swept in killing waves over the People, Gold elves sought to expand their rule at the expense of Silver and Green elf settlements, Green elves joined with dark elves to combat this aggression, and finally Gold and Silver and Green elves banded together to drive the dark elves Below. The Crown Wars and other battles like them tell but a part of the tale. A subtle, constant battle has been waged between the elven races, a battle that is older than the beginning of elven history. If you would understand Kymil Nimesin and his followers, you must go back as far as lore and legend will take you and observe the ancient conflict between Silver and Gold. From such threads are woven the tapestry of Evermeet.
As you follow the story of Silver and Gold, keep in mind that clan Nimesin is a sept-that is, a minor branch-of the ancient clan Durothil. This fact alone will explain much.
I repeat: Kymil Nimesin represents much of what is valued by elven nobility. By the same token, he illustrates that which is most basically and grievously wrong with the elven People.
Prelude
The Coming of Darkness
10 day of Alturiak, 1369 DR
Kymil Nimesin gazed out of the window of his cell into the endless void beyond. Actually, it was not precisely a void, for points of light glimmered like stars in a deep sapphire sky. Starlight was as important to an elf as the air he breathed, and not even Kymil's human captors were so ignorant or so cruel as to deprive him of this.
His other needs had been well met as well. His "prison" was in fact a well-appointed suite of rooms. Kymil had all the basic necessities and many comforts, as well as extras seldom afforded a captive and a traitor. Lorebooks filled a whole wall of shelves, and an elven harp stood on a table alongside a crystal flute. He had parchment and ink in plenty, and even an elegant, golden-eyed cat to accompany him in his eternal banishment. Yes, the Harpers had been generous.
Once again, as he had so often, Kymil relived the day sentence had been passed upon him by the Harper Tribunal, a detestable court comprising humans and half-breeds. He had been found guilty of the murder of twenty-seven Harpers and sentenced to exile to a miniature, magical world on some distant and mysterious plane of existence far from the world known as Aber-toril. The Harpers had decided this was the only way Kymil's life would be safe, for many elves of Aber-toril would otherwise make it a life quest to hunt him down and kill him. His larger crime-treason against the elven crown-was not a matter Harpers could address. Kymil doubted the elves of Evermeet, given the opportunity to bring him to trial, would have been as merciful as the Harpers.
But there was no gratitude in the elf's heart. The humans who had sent him here were weak, stupid, and shortsighted. He would find a way out of his prison, and then he would complete the task to which he had dedicated his life-the task to which he had been born, bred, and trained.
Kymil envisioned those who had spoken against him at his trial, and then dreamed of the vengeance he would take upon each one. It was an oft-repeated litany, and it had sustained him through his nearly five years of captivity.
First was Arilyn, the half-breed and Harper, who for so long had been Kymil’s unwitting tool. A cast-off bastard of the royal Moonflower clan and the heir to a moonblade, she had no knowledge of her royal elven heritage, no place at all in a world where human and elves were not meant to meet, much less mix. When her mother, the princess Amnestria in exile and disguise, was slain at Kymil's instigation, young Arilyn had been left alone and adrift. To Kymil's astonishment, the elven blade had accepted the half-breed child as a worthy heir. He recovered from this insult quickly, however, swiftly enough to make Arilyn part of his plans. It had been an easy matter to woo her, train her, give her a sense of place and purpose-and then to use the powers of her sword to strike against the family that had rejected her. There was a certain justice in this, as well as an irony, that Kymil had found deeply satisfying. Arilyn, however, had not been of like mind. Even now, it was incomprehensible to Kymil that a mere half-breed could have bested him. She had ferreted her way through the layers of his plot, she had scattered his Elite Guard and destroyed one of his most talented Circle Singers, she had thwarted his plan to attack the heart of Evermeet, and-perhaps most stinging of all-she had defeated him in single combat.
For all these things, Arilyn would die painfully and slowly. But not, Kymil vowed darkly, before she had been stripped of all her pretensions of elfishness. He would force her into battle against noble elves and see her moonblade turn against her. He would see her utterly outcast by humans and elves alike. He would see the devotion in the eyes of the human mage who so clearly loved her replaced by loathing and rejection. He would see her the plaything of orcs and ogres. And then, he would get nasty.
Once Arilyn was satisfactorily destroyed, Kymil would turn his attention to Elaith Craulnober. This was not merely a matter of vengeance, but principle, for Elaith was not only a Gray elf, but a rogue at that. Lord of a vast business empire that ran the gamut from the shockingly criminal to the merely questionable, Elaith was a power with which to reckon in the great city of Waterdeep. Kymil had employed Elaith's services many times, usually when he needed a task done with which he would not sully his own hand. Yet Elaith had taken Arilyn's side, standing together as Gray elves were wont to do, and had given testimony against Kymil. It was so unusual for one elf to speak against another that Elaith's words had held tremendous weight at Kymil's trial. And there was also the matter of the papers that Elaith had produced-papers that linked Kymil with the evil Zhentarim. The Seldarine be praised, Elaith had not scented the meat of Kymil's dealings with this powerful group!
Then would come Lamruil, prince of Evermeet. Oh, Kymil had seen him at the sentencing, though the fool had taken some care to disguise himself. Even with a cloak muting his elven grace and a cowl covering his telltale ears, there was no mistaking Lamruil for any other. The young prince was strikingly handsome, even as beauty was reckoned among the elves. He had the Moonflower eyes-deep, bright blue eyes flecked with golden lights, and he possessed his father's great height and muscular form. Few elves topped six feet, but Lamruil did so with a handspan to spare. His height alone would fool the less observant, but not only had Kymil made a study of the elven "royal family," he knew Lamruil well. Too well, in fact.
Lamruil had traveled with him for years, unwittingly aiding Kymil in his search for the "lost" Moonflower children. In the process, the prince had fought at Kymil's side, learned from him the art of swordcraft, and uncovered the lost wealth of Kymil's ancestors. It often seemed, however, that the Gray elf pup was more interested in drinking and wenching than he was in their shared adventures. Lamruil certainly showed far too much interest in humans and their affairs, and his gaiety and light-hearted personality was as annoying to Kymil as one of those trite tavern ballads that so delighted humans-and, truth be told, Lamruil as well. It galled Kymil now to think that this spoiled and insipid princeling might try to recover some of the treasure that they'd left in hidden caches throughout the wilds of Faerun. That treasure Kymil had meant to fund his ambitions against Evermeet.
And yet, perhaps that would be for the best. A smile pulled at the corners of Kymil's tightly set lips. He had warded his troves well, and he doubted that Lamruil, who had scant interest in the art of magic, would be able to survive any attempt to plunder the treasure.
In a way, Kymil would be sorry to see Lamruil die. The young prince had been a useful tool and might again be of some use. Devoted to his sister Amnestria, Lamruil had been blindly determined to find the runaway princess. He was also anxious to see and experience the wide world and eager to link his fortunes with an adventurer of Kymil's renown. The lad had been a fountain of information about the royal family, and a pawn in Kymil's own deadly search for the princess Amnestria and the sword she carried. Lamruil's search for his sister had failed: Kymil's had not.
And he'd gotten away with it for a long time, long enough to give him a confidence that spurred him toward his most cherished goals. After all, Amnestria had been dead for more than twenty-five years, her father for more than forty. This Kymil considered his crowning achievement. All his life-All his life!-he had searched for a means to breach Evermeet's defenses and destroy the Gray elf pretenders to the throne. His family's secret exile from the island had made his task more difficult. Kymil could not set foot upon Evermeet, for fear of alerting the powerful Silver elf who knew his secrets. Yet he had found a way, for the discovery of Princess Amnestria's elfgate had enabled him to send an assassin into the royal city. The elfgate had been his triumph-and his downfall.
Yet Kymil was nothing if not persistent. For five years, he had contemplated a way to turn this failure around. The elfgate had been moved, the silver threads of magic's Weave rearranged in a way that Kymil would have thought impossible. But even that could be turned against the royal elves.
Since the death of Evermeet's king, Kymil had made a special study of magical travel. He understood it as few elves did. In time, he would put this knowledge to work.
Nor was that his only expertise. One of the Elite Guard slain by the half-breed was Filauria Ni'Tessine, Kymil's lover and a Circle Singer of great power. Most elves thought that this ancient gift-a rare type of spell song that could bind disparate magics together-was extinct. But Kymil had sought out Circle Singers, had trained them to weave magic in a manner similar to that done by a Center-a powerful mage who directed a Circle of High Magi. Over the years, the Nimesins and their secret allies had built a Tower of their own upon Evermeet. A circle powerful enough to challenge Evermeet's own and shut the island off from the world-leaving it stranded, imprisoned by its own powerful Weave of magic.
"The elves of Evermeet wished to be isolated from the world. They will get what they wished for-and what they deserve," Kymil murmured.
All that lacked to bring this to fruition was Kymil himself. If only he could free himself from this prison, he could set in motion plans he and his clan had spent centuries putting into place.
If only.
The elf's near-delirium faded, and the reality of his imprisonment closed around his heart like the talons of a hunting hawk. A cry of rage and despair escaped his lips-a fearful howl so full of rage that it sent a shimmer of dread down his own spine.
The echoes of his scream lingered long in the chamber, slowly diminishing in a manner than reminded Kymil of the spreading rings sent forth when a pebble is cast into a calm sea.
When all was silent, the incomprehensible happened: Someone-something-responded to his inchoate call.
A foul scent drifted into the chamber, and the pattern on the fine woolen carpet began to blur as a dark, gelatinous substance oozed up from some mysterious depth below it. Kymil watched, horror-struck, as the entity Ghaunadar took shape before him.
He knew the lore. He knew as well as any elf alive that Ghaunadar was summoned by great and audacious evil. Until this moment, Kymil had never perceived his ambitions as anything but right and proper. The arrival of Ghaunadar was a glimpse into a dark mirror, and the shock of confronting his own image was greater than his dread of the terrible Power before him.
It was not as great, however, as the second stunning surprise dealt Kymil. A large, dark bubble formed on the seething surface of the Elemental God's form, somehow seeming to take on evil power as it grew in size. When the thing burst, Kymil felt that his heart would also shatter, for standing before him was the thing that above all others was anathema to the Gold elves: Lloth, the dark goddess of the drow. His horror seemed to amuse the goddess, and the smile on her beautiful face was even more chilling than Ghaunadar's lurking presence.
"Greeting, Lord Kymil," she said in musical, mocking tones. "Your summons has been heard, your methods approved. If you are willing to join hands with those who also plot against Evermeet, we will see you freed from this prison."
Kymil tried to speak and found that he could not. He licked his parchment-dry lips and tried again. The words that emerged, however, were not quite what he'd expected to say.
"You could do this?" he whispered.
Crimson fire flared hot in Lloth's eyes. "Do not doubt my power," she hissed at him. "It would amuse me to see a golden drider-the first! Would you also relish this transformation, Kymil Nimesin?"
Horror clutched at Kymil's heart as he contemplated this threat. Elven sages claimed that Lloth could transform her dark-elven followers into horrific beings that were half-elven, half spider. He did not know, however, which was the more appalling prospect: the transformation itself, or the possibility that he could somehow have fallen within the sphere of Lloth's influence. Never had he contemplated this possibility; nor, apparently, had those who had imprisoned him here. Despite all he had done, there was nothing in Kymil Nimesin's life that so much as suggested the possibility that he might seek any gods but those of the Seldarine. Yet here was Lloth, beautiful beyond telling and filling his room with dark, compelling power.
"I do not doubt you," he managed.
"Good," the goddess purred. "Then listen well. We will set you free of this prison, on the condition that you go where we cannot. The gods of the Seldarine will not suffer us to attack Evermeet directly, but you can gather elves who can and will."
"But how?" Kymil demanded. "There are few elves in all the world who would not kill me on sight."
"There are other worlds, and many are the elves who inhabit them," the goddess said. She laughed at the stunned expression that fell over Kymil's face.
"You faerie elves are so enamored with yourselves, so determined to think you are the only People alive, that you have forgotten your own history," she sneered. "You came to Toril as invaders, more than willing to displace those who came before. Do you think that you are the only elves so minded?"
Kymil struggled with the task of wrapping his mind around this possibility. "Gold elves?" he asked tentatively. Lloth laughed again, delightedly and derisively. "Ah, but you are priceless-and predictable. Yes, there are Gold elves upon other worlds. I have prepared some for you. Come and see."
Almost against his will, Kymil walked toward the goddess. The seething mass that was Ghaunadar parted to allow him to pass. Kymil gingerly walked through, then peered into the globe that Lloth had conjured from the empty air. The scene within stole his breath.
In a sky whose utter darkness rivaled the obsidian skin of the drow goddess, two strange vessels were locked in mortal combat. One, a graceful winged vessel that looked like a titanic butterfly, was crewed by elves who could have passed as Kymil’s near kin. The other was a massive armored ship teaming with well-armed creatures that looked like orcs, but fought with an intelligence and discipline that no orc on Toril could match.
"Scro," Lloth said by way of explanation. "They are a race of clever, powerful orcs from another world, and they fight against the Elven Imperial Navy. As you can see, they will soon prevail against this ship.
"Would you like to know the nature of this butterfly ship, and the elves upon it?" she continued in her faintly mocking tone. "These are survivors of a world in flames. The scro overran their homeland and utterly destroyed it. These elves are desperate for a homeland. They would follow an elven noble who offered them one, and not fret overmuch if they needed to overthrow a kingdom in order to possess it. Thus did your own ancestors, when they fled from a dying world. Thus would you do also, if you were thrust into a new world. Elves such as you believe that rulership is a divine right."
Kymil's thoughts whirled as he stared intently at the life-and-death struggle playing out within the globe. The scope and complexity of the picture the goddess painted, however strange it might seem at first glimpse, fit within the framework of his mind. It was not so very hard to accept.
"What would you have me do?"
Lloth smiled and made a quick, complex gesture with one hand. A burst of fetid smoke filled the room, and from it stepped a second fearsome deity.
Kymil was no coward, but he shrank back before the evil power that was Malar, the Beastlord.
The avatar was enormous-more than twice Kymil's height, and armed with terrible talons and antlers whose prongs looked long and as sharp as elven swords. Malar was armored with a black-furred hide, and he regarded the elf with a derisive expression in his crimson eyes. Although bearlike in general shape, the god lacked a snout or a visible mount. The furred flesh that draped his single oral cavity fluttered as Malar let out a whuffle of obvious scorn.
But the bestial god, unlike his dark-elven ally, wasted no time either greeting or taunting the elf. Towering over the delicate Lloth, Malar bent down and tapped the floating globe with one taloned finger.
"Look here, elf," the god said in a harsh, grating voice. "A second elf ship, taken from Arborianna before it was set aflame. The ship is crewed by a few of my followers-goblins, base born orcs-and powered by a single elven mage. The ship is not big enough or well armed enough to turn the battle, but it has aboard a living weapon that can destroy the scro vessel. A monster that will kill and kill until none remain. You will feed my followers to it, then unleash it upon the scro ship. The elves will hail you as their savior. But be sure to kill the elf mage first, lest he betray you to the others."
Kymil stared at the god. "You would betray those who follow you, and bid me betray one of my own people?"
As soon as he'd spoken the rash words, Kymil feared he'd written his own death order. To his astonishment, both gods broke into long and genuine laughter. Even Ghaunadar joined in after a fashion, for the gelatinous mass bubbled and popped in a grim parody of laughter. Finally the horrible chorus ended, and Lloth wiped her streaming eyes and turned to the bemused elf.
"A few goblins and orcs are a small price to pay for what you will give us. Say the word, and we will set you upon this ship. The rest is yours to do."
"I am to lead an invasion of Evermeet," Kymil said dazedly.
"Was that not your intent? Is that not your dream? With the added strength of the Gold elves of Arborianna, you should have an easy task of supplanting the Moonflower clan and ruling Evermeet."
"If such a plan is to succeed, I will need to contact those few of my followers who remain, both on Evermeet and upon Faerun," Kymil said hesitantly. "Would this be possible?"
In response, Lloth produced a handful of gems from some hidden pocket in the folds of her silken, ebony gown. These she gave to Kymil. "You will recognize these-these are gems of communication much like those you yourself have used to good effect. Tell me all those whom you wish to contact, and I will see that gems get into their hands."
Kymil nodded thoughtfully. It was a good plan, and it could work. He would gather support from many quarters, then slip down to Toril to lead the sea forces upon Evermeet himself. One question remained, however-an enormous question.
"Why do you support my ambitions?" he asked bluntly. "It seems to me that one elf is much like another in the eyes of Lloth and Malar."
The goddess shrugged. "Evermeet has been denied to me and my children; its queen is Corellon's special pet. The joy of seeing Amlaruil of Evermeet destroyed will be payment enough for the ignominy of any alliance I might have to make. I mean no offense, great Malar."
The bestial god whuffled; Kymil got the impression that Malar was of like mind on the matter.
"That is part, but not all, of my concern," the elf said cautiously. "Once you have begun to destroy Evermeet, will you be content to stop?"
"You are clever," Lloth said approvingly. "The answer, as you suspect, is no. I would love to see the wretched island swallowed by the sea! But that, I fear, must be a pleasure deferred. I do not yet have the power to destroy Evermeet; nonetheless, I will take what pleasure I can."
The grim, naked ambition in the goddess's voice horrified Kymil. He did not know what ambitions the goddess harbored within her dark heart-he did not truly want to know-but somehow he believed that she would do all she offered. He himself had made several improbable alliances in order to reach the goals he had accomplished thus far, and he had honored them insomuch as they advanced his purposes. He saw his own resolve reflected back from the mirror of Lloth's crimson eyes.
"What you say, I will do," he said simply. Book Two
Silver and Gold
"No one, not even the wisest and most venerable elven sage, can say with assurance when and from whence the first elves came to Toril. But tales are told of a time long past, when elves fled by the thousands from war-torn Faerie, that magical land that exists in the unseen shadows of a thousand worlds.
The songs and stories that tell of those times are as numerous as the stars. No one now living could give a history that would sate those sages who search the ancient lore as a lover studies his beloved's face, or as dreamers who gaze up into the night sky and wonder.
But sometimes a pattern emerges from the telling of small tales, much as the individual bits of tile or stone become a mosaic, or a thousand bright threads interweave to form a tapestry."
– Excerpt from a letter from Kriios Halambar,
Master Luthier of New Olamn Barding College, Waterdeep