Cormyr

Chapter 10: Coronation

Year of Opening Doors (26 DR)

Ondeth’s smoke clung to Faerlthann Obarskyr as he stormed into the elven court, the wizard Baerauble trailing a short and respectable distance behind him. Even so, the mage had to lengthen his strides and hasten to keep up with the young man.

The Court of Iliphar, Lord of the Scepters, had set up a great pavilion on the site of Mondar’s Massacre, now nearly a decade ago. The reason for their appearance here was as obvious as it was threatening. Few humans knew that the massacre had been more than a goblin raid, and it had become a cautionary tale against farming beyond the comfortable wooden palisade of Suzail. But around late fires, tongues wag, and more than a few folk had been told by their fathers in confidence to beware of the elves and not “be the fool that Mondar was.”

The timing of the elven arrival was obvious as well. Ondeth had died yestereve, his great heart finally giving out after a life of hard work and harder revels. He was struck down while trying to help Smye the smithmaster unmire his cart on a muddy road. Ondeth lingered a single day, weakly making his final farewells to friends and family. When the gods finally came for him, Faerlthann was there, beside Minda and Arphoind. Minda and Ondeth had married, and Faerlthann had come at last to accept her as his father’s love, if not as his rightful mother. Arphoind, now sixteen, had been taken into the household but kept his family name in honor of Mondar.

Baerauble wasn’t present when Ondeth died, but that didn’t surprise Faerlthann. He’d seen the mage only a dozen times since the day they burned Mondar, and each time the wizard had gone behind firmly closed doors with Ondeth to deal with some matter of Suzailan import. Faerlthann recalled the old mage telling tales by the fireside when Faerlthann was a boy and wondered if he avoided the town out of shame or guilt for his knowledge of the massacre.

Ondeth’s passing came at midnight. Wood was gathered and laid in a towering pyre at the foot of the Obarskyr hills, below the expanded manor house. The old farmer’s body was dressed in a saffron gown,. and his ancient hammer and sledge were laid on his chest. When the first rays of the sun struck Suzail, the wood was set ablaze, and Ondeth’s spirit was sent to join his brothers’ and Mondar’s in the halls of the gods.

It was then that word spread that the elves were here. Not one or two, as sometimes wandered into town, or even a party of hunters like the dozen who’d commandeered a tavern five years back. This time it was more, much more: The elven court had arrived.

North and west of the town, their huge tents of diaphanous green and yellow broke smoothly above the green shadowtop leaves like the shoulders of some great draconian beast.

It was a strange coincidence, folk said, their arrival so soon after Ondeth’s passing. Faerlthann no longer believed in coincidences, and he believed in them even less when Baerauble, green-robed and as lean as ever, finally appeared.

The mage pulled him away from the feast hall while the pyre was still blazing strong. Faerlthann set his jaw. The cheek of the man! If the wizard was still a man, truly…

The wizard made a few mumbled apologies to Minda and young Arphoind and said that matters of utmost urgency demanded that the scion of the Obarskyrs accompany him. Lord Iliphar wished to have words with Faerlthann Obarskyr.

Faerlthann protested, but there was a look on the mage’s face that stopped his words as surely as any spell. He looked at his family. Minda nodded for him to go. Arphoind’s face was creased with a deep frown, and his nod was slower to come-but come it did.

Still in the hall, in front of all the leading families, Baerauble grasped young Obarskyr’s shoulders firmly. He muttered his inhuman words and the two were bathed in a brilliant glow. From his father’s tales, Faerlthann knew what to expect and stood calmly under Baerauble’s hands. When the radiance faded, they were standing at the cavernous entrance to the elves’ pavilion.

The structure had been raised, and was kept aloft, by elven magic. A series of spires curved out like horns from a floating dragon’s head to shelter huge open spaces beneath. Diaphanous fabrics hung from those spires, shimmering in the morning sun, to make the vast walls of the pavilion. The air smelled of warm summer earth. Butterflies, whose season had not yet come beyond this place, fluttered to and fro on soft breezes. From ahead came the soft, liquid chords of a lute played with more skill than the Obarskyr heir had ever heard before. As he shook off Baerauble’s hands and strode forward, a singer’s voice rose to join the music-an almost sobbing voice of velvet, clearer and higher than that of any human woman.

Faerlthann had no time or patience for the wonders of the elves, he was too busy charging forward. The dratted wizard and these damnably imperious elves hadn’t even given him a chance to change! He still wore mourning white, the tabard and hood covering most of the rest of his garb. At his hip swung Mondar’s heavy-halted sword, now his own, which had gained a name in the past decade: Ansrivarr, the elvish word for “memory.” The smoke of the pyre still clung to him, and Faerlthann saw several delicate elf women hold sleeves to their nostrils as he passed. That small slight fed his fury even more.

He burst into the main chamber unannounced, the wizard doing nothing to impede his progress. Faerlthann catapulted into the place beneath the highest spire, a space larger than any human church on this side of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

The voice and the lute stopped immediately, and a there was a soft, sibilant drawing of breath from a hundred elven throats. Clusters of courtiers in Faerlthann’s way parted as if split by a blade, clearing a path for the young Obarskyr. The last to get clear of his route was the elven troubadour herself, who paused only to give a small bow as she ceded the floor to the newcomer.

A tripartite throne stood on the far side of the pavilion. It did not look crafted so much as grown there, for it seemed rooted firmly in the earth itself, the high seats reached by a set of low, broad crystalline steps that glistened like pools of melted ice. The right-hand seat was occupied by a stern-looking elf in full armor, the fine links of his silver mail flowing to match his lean body. In the left-hand seat was an elven woman, her flowing gown the same shade of green as Baerauble’s robes.

In the center sat the tallest and eldest of the elves. He was a wan, thin creature, to Faerlthann’s eyes as ancient as the forest itself… or more. This elf’s eyes gleamed like bright gems at the bottom of great, sunken pits, and his skin possessed a sallow luminescence, strengthened by the light filtering through the fabric of the pavilion. The ancient elf was not unmarked, down one side of his face ran a single great scar. On his brow, the elf wore a circlet of gold, its three tall spires set with purple amethysts.

“Greetings, Faerlthann Obarskyr, son of Ondeth,” said the eldest elf calmly, his voice a rich symphony of pleasantry. “I bring you the greetings of Iliphar Nelnueve, Lord of the Scepters, and all the elven peoples. Our condolences on the passing of your father.”

“You did not summon me from my father’s funeral for mere condolences, elf lord,” said Faerlthann flatly. “What is so important that I could not finish honoring my father’s memory?”

The stern armored elf on the right stiffened, and Faerlthann saw him grip the arms of his seat firmly. The female on the left-hand seat, on the other hand, merely raised her eyebrows and gave young Faerlthann a small smile.

If the centermost elf was stung by the human’s words, he did not show it. “It is your father we need to discuss with you. More importantly, the legacy of your father, to you and to the humans who remain in Cormyr.”

Baerauble came forward and placed himself to one side, between Faerlthann and the elven triumvirate. He was choosing his side in this fight, Faerlthann thought. In the middle. Faerlthann felt abandoned and alone, but did not let his worry cloud his face or his judgment.

The elf continued, ignoring the human mage. “There have been humans who came into the wolf woods before Ondeth’s people. Some passed through. Some sought to despoil our lands. The former we allowed to pass. The latter… we destroyed. Your father, and those he brought with him, did not pass through. Nor did they despoil our hunting grounds. They kept to their first glade and rarely harmed the land beyond it. Ondeth’s people served as adequate caretakers of the land under your father’s leadership.”

“My father was not…” began Faerlthann, but Baerauble raised a warning hand. Interrupting a lord among the elves simply was not done.

“Your father was the leader of your people, regardless of his own denials. When those of Suzail needed direction, they turned to him. When they needed strength, to him. When they needed wisdom, to him. He may not have carried the title of king or prince or duke, but he was your people’s leader, and now he is no more. And he left no one ready to take his place. Typically shortsighted. Typically human.”

Faerlthann started to growl another protest, but Baerauble raised his hand once more, this time adding a sharp glare. Let the elf speak, he seemed to say, and listen. Faerlthann nodded and held his tongue.

“So now we have a town full of humans, not the few dozen he told us of a mere twenty years back. A town almost in our midst, full of humans without a leader, without a master, without written law. Held together for the shortest period by one honest human. And now that human is no more.” He raised a hand in what might almost have been a salute-or a gesture of resignation.

“We few of the elven court have become divided, even as your kind multiply,” the elf lord continued, the smallest of smiles flickering across his face. He motioned to the armored elf on his right. “Othorion Keove, here, believes that with Ondeth’s passing, our agreement is null and void, and Ondeth’s people should be driven into the sea.”

He motioned to his left. “Alea Dahast, who once hunted men in this forest, now believes you should be allowed to remain, but confined to your current warren. Were you to spread farther or increase your numbers beyond reasonable bounds, you would have to be destroyed, or else we would be destroyed.”

Faerlthann put his rage aside and started to listen to the elf-not just to the words, heavy with foreboding, but to the tone. Iliphar sounded old and tired, like Faerlthann’s father after an evening of arguing with his mother.

Others have pressured him into this, Faerlthann thought. Probably the chain-clad one on the right. That one had a hungry hunter’s look to him. He appeared to be looking for any excuse to put Suzail to the torch.

Yet the choices they spoke of were abhorrent. Even if Faerlthann had wanted to, he could not abandon Suzail, nor could he prevent it from growing. More people were arriving each month. Now there were tales of plague and lurking sea monsters in Marsember, and boats were passing that city by, to moor at smaller but cleaner Suzail. Deciding not to grow might be an elven solution, but it could not be a human one.

“There is another possibility,” announced Baerauble. “You could recognize the sovereignty of Lord Iliphar in all things and allow appointment of a minister to oversee your community. You could therefore remain in the Land of the Purple Dragon.”

Baerauble turned his head briefly to the trifold throne. The woman on the left favored him with a radiant smile. Faerlthann saw what was going on here. Baerauble would be that minister and would run things as the elves saw the world and as these forest folk desired. No Suzailan townsman would stand for that.

Faerlthann was about to speak when there was a disturbance behind him, outside the pavilion. Ondeth’s son considered the time it would take for a band of men to organize and ride out to the elven pavilion. He almost let a grim smile creep onto his face. Even the densest Suzailan would be able to figure out where Baerauble Elf-friend had disappeared to with Ondeth’s only son and heir.

They charged into the main area, men in leathers with swords already drawn. The elven nobles fell back without argument or threat. Faerlthann saw some of them smiling indulgently at the humans, as a man might smile at the antics of a yapping puppy.

The humans came in a tight group, Arphoind in the lead, he was flanked by the two elder Silvers, each with his oldest boy, and several Turcassans and Merendils brought up the rear. These latter were recent arrivals from the south, where folk held low opinions of both elves and wizards.

Upon seeing Faerlthann, Arphoind raised a shout, echoed by the others. The young Obarskyr held up both hands for silence. The group quieted and slowly sheathed their blades. None retied the peace bonds that would prevent their swords from being swiftly drawn again.

Turning back to the throne, Faerlthann saw that the warrior-elf was on his feet with his sword drawn. As he glared over it at the intruding humans, the elven blade shimmered with its own light, and small arcs of lightning sizzled along its blade. Iliphar put a hand on Othorion’s shoulder, and the armored elf slowly sheathed his weapon and sank back into his seat. The fury in his sky-blue eyes remained.

“Gentlemen,” said Baerauble, “we were discussing the fate of this land, called by some Cormyr, by others the Wolf Woods, and by still others the Land of the Purple Dragon. So far the following suggestions have been put forth: a purge of all humans, a containment of all humans, or a recognition of elvish sovereignty under a minister.”

The gathered humans started shouting at once, primarily to reject all the offered options. Faerlthann held up a hand, and once more they grew quiet. “I have heard two options from elves and one from an elf-friend. What of a human solution? Did not Ondeth agree to care for this land placed in his trust?”

“He did so,” admitted Baerauble, speaking for the elves.

“And how long have we been in this land?”

“Twenty summers,” said the mage.

“My father saw sixty ere he died,” said Faerlthann, “so he spent a third of his life here, farming and helping other farmers. True?”

Baerauble made an exaggerated nod.

“Lord Iliphar,” Faerlthann asked calmly, “may I ask your age?”

The elf lord permitted himself the briefest of smiles. “I see your point. No, this land is not as it was a third of thy lifetime ago. In many ways it is tamer, with many of the more dangerous beasts hunted out, never to return. The forest buffalo were diminished before you even arrived, and Ondeth himself proved his mettle against one of the last giant owlbears. Even the dragons are not what they were, the greatest sleep their lives away far from contact with any of us. And we, too, grow fewer, as more elves travel north to rejoin our cousins of Cormanthor. The wolves survive, of course, and the deer and the great cats, but, no, the land is not as it was. It would be folly to deny that.”

“So we have been suitable caretakers of the small patch of land entrusted to us?”

“Ondeth was, but Ondeth is no more.”

“Ondeth lives on in me,” said Faerlthann firmly. “And I am prepared to take on his responsibilities.”

“We offered a crown to your father, human,” spat the warrior-elf Othorion. “He threw it back in our faces.”

There was muttering behind Faerlthann. The young Obarskyr knew of the offer, as did the Silvers, but they had kept much of what had occurred that day quiet. “He rejected an offer of the elves to be the keeper of humans. He did not want to be a puppet dancing to an elven tune. Did I quote him correctly, mage?”

“Sufficiently closely,” the lean wizard agreed. Baerauble had an anxious, excited expression on his face. Faerlthann took that as a good sign.

“A rulership demanded from the elves is as weak as a rulership offered by the elves,” Iliphar responded calmly.

“I am not demanding this of you,” said Faerlthann, turning to the other assembled men. “Good gentles, these elves will not deal with us seriously unless I hold some sort of power in our community. You’ve known me almost all my life. If you must have an official leader, is there any better available, any you’d rather serve than I?”

Arphoind was the first to reply. The youth strode forward and stood before Faerlthann. He drew his sword as he did so, and drove it into the soft earth before him point first. Kneeling by the blade, he said, “I pledge my loyalty to House Obarskyr, to the memory of Ondeth, and the blood that runs in your veins.” His thin voice cracked and quaked, but the words rang clearly throughout the pavilion.

Faerlthann pulled Mondar’s blade free of the earth and gently tapped the youth on the shoulder. “Arise, Sir Bleth, first of those who serve me.”

Arphoind’s kneeling pledge was followed by those of the Silver brothers and their sons. Then the Turcassans and the Merendils knelt, and one of the Rayburtons. All swore their fealty to House Obarskyr and named Faerlthann their lord.

Faerlthann turned back to the throne, a lump in his throat, and saw that Iliphar had left his throne and was now gliding down the wide steps toward him. The elder elf moved effortlessly, his robes billowing like the sails of a great sailing ship as he drifted down to earth.

At last the ancient elf stood face-to-face with the young human. Iliphar towered over Faerlthann. His sallow, hollow-cheeked face was stern as he gazed down upon the younger man. Faerlthann tried to keep awe from his face as their gazes met. The elf lord’s deep old eyes danced with… mischief?

“We meet now as equals,” Faerlthann said, rousing himself with an effort. “As leaders of our people. Let us come to terms now.”

“If you would be king, you must have a crown,” said the elf, raising his slender hands to the circlet that banded his own brow. Behind Iliphar, the warrior-elf spat a protest, but the old elf took off his crown and held it aloft over Faerlthann’s head.

“I cannot make you king, for your own people have done that,” said Iliphar, and though his voice seemed quiet, it called forth echoes from trees outside the pavilion. “I only recognize that fact in granting you this crown, Faerlthann Obarskyr, son of Ondeth, lord of Suzail, master of the humans within it, and King of Cormyr, the Wolf Woods… the Forest Kingdom. I call upon you to protect this land as the elves have protected it, to recognize the rights of the elves to hunt within its domains, and for you and your heirs to show wisdom and compassion in the dispatch of your duties. Your father ruled for twenty years while rejecting any title. You will have the harder job, for much will be expected of you.”

With that, the elder elf laid the circlet on Faerlthann’s head. Jaquor Silver led a shout of acclaim from the watching humans.

Othorion, the warrior-elf, let out a cry of rage as his radiant blade slid out of its scabbard once more. “Has age finally addled you, my lord,” he snarled, “that you invest such children-such rough, uncultured, unfeeling, unwashed cubs-to protect our forest? I say we should drive them like the rothe before us and make this land truly ours again, washing free the stain they’ve left upon it with their own blood! Let us be masters of this forest once more!”

There was a murmur of assent, small but definitely present, from the watching elves. The men drew together, hands straying to their blades. Arphoind Bleth strode to Faerlthann’s side, his blade half drawn.

Baerauble broke in. “Your first challenge, Lord of the Land of the Purple Dragon. How do you respond to this?” There was a trace of mockery in his tone.

No, not mockery, thought Faerlthann, putting out a hand to stay Arphoind. The wizard was stressing the title of the land. The fledgling King of Cormyr looked at Baerauble, seeing if the mage’s tone meant sarcasm. No, the wizard was nervous now… more anxious than before. What did he mean, then? And why did he keep mentioning the mythical purple dragon?

Suddenly it dawned on Faerlthann Obarskyr what the wizard meant and whose side Baerauble was on, after all.

“When I was but a child,” he began, nodding toward Baerauble, “a venerable and wise elf-friend betimes would sit by our fire and tell stories. His tales were wondrous and great, and chief among them was the saga of an elven king who bested in single combat a great dragon whose black scales had turned purple with age. This elven king’s battle skill was mighty, but his words were mightier still. He showed the dragon that twenty elves might fall to slay a dragon, but twenty more elves would come to replace them-to face no dragon, for the loss of a dragon is a harder thing to recover from than the loss of a band of elves.”

The young man looked at Iliphar. Yes, the lights of mischief were dancing in the elf lord’s eyes, and something else, too. Respect.

“So I offer you the same hard lesson, Othorion. You may step down from your high throne and slay me, and perhaps kill all my companions. You might even burn Suzail as other human camps have been burned. But that will not be the end of things, for more humans will come. And these may not be as friendly or as kind as we of Ondeth’s people. If they find our bones, they will know peril awaits in the woods. They may be armed with fire, with steel, and with magic. They may choose to destroy your woods to take the land for themselves. And even in our graves, we will have won, if only in bringing your world to ruin. Is that what you choose, warrior-elf?”

Othorion opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Lord Iliphar. The elder elf raised an eyebrow, daring the elf to speak. Slowly, and very reluctantly, Othorion sheathed his blade once more.

“You take on a heavy mantle,” said Iliphar, turning back to Faerlthann. “Your father’s work and lands and these woods of the elves are great and carry a great weight. There will be more humans, and you and your kindred must teach them, as Ondeth was taught, to use the land but to respect it. It is a daunting job.”

Faerithann nodded.

“For that reason, I think you need an advisor,” said the elf lord, “one who will remain with you and aid you and your descendants. One vested in the knowledge of the elves and in the passions of humans.” He turned toward Baerauble.

For the first time, the mage was surprised. “Me? I cannot! Lord, I have served you well these many years!”

“And you shall serve us well again,” said Iliphar, “for humans have short memories and short lives, and you must guide them.”

“But I have a life among the elves!” the wizard protested, motioning to the elf woman on the throne. “I have my love and children here… and my grandchildren!”

“And they shall be cared for as well,” said Iliphar, stepping before the mage. “I know you well, Baerauble Etharr. You calculated that these other humans would follow young Faerlthann here, and you contrived to make them search their hearts and honor Ondeth’s memory and his son with a crown. And you aided this young king in finding the perfect tale to cool hot Othorion. You prodded, poked, and manipulated us all. And all-I trust-because you desired to protect this land.”

The elder elf smiled. “And now you will protect this land and its rulers. You will advise, and calculate, and teach now among humans. I charge you with protecting the crown of Cormyr.”

Baerauble sputtered a few protests but trailed off into silence. Looking into Iliphar’s eyes, he nodded in surrender and acceptance.

The elder elf muttered a few words in a tongue Faerlthann did not recognize, then placed his hands on either side of the wizard’s brow, as if he, too, were being crowned with an invisible helm. There was a brief, soft glow where the elf’s hands touched Baerauble’s face.

The elf lord stepped back. He looked older now, but his eyes still danced. “We will go now. You shall see less and less of us with each passing generation. Perhaps we will become legends like Thauglor the Black, the great purple dragon. But know that we lived, as did he, and remember that old legend you spoke of as well, for it holds both a promise… and a warning.”

It was then that Faerlthann realized that the elves were disappearing. One at a time, they were turning translucent and fading from view like fog on a sunny summer morning. The elven court held some powerful magic, it seemed. As the men gaped around, knuckles white on the hilts of their blades, the elves simply vanished, in ones and twos, like wisps of smoke. As Iliphar spoke, more disappeared, until at last all that remained were the humans and the three elves who had sat on the thrones.

The warrior-elf Othorion nodded grimly to the humans as he faded away, and as he did so, the voluminous tent began to fade as well.

Alea Dahast rose and gently descended the steps, standing at last before Baerauble. Under her feet, the steps melted away into smoke, and as the throne dwindled into drifting shadows, the elf lady parted the human wizard’s reaching hands and reached up her hands to his face.

The mage looked devastated as she took his head in her hands and kissed him, gently and yet deeply almost hungrily. For two breaths and more, the kiss went on, and everyone heard Jaquor Silver shift and swallow at the sight. And then suddenly Alea was gone, leaving Baerauble staring at nothing, with tears running down his cheeks, holding only empty air.

Iliphar placed a hand on Faerlthann’s shoulder. “Rule well, child,” he said gently.

And then he, too, was gone, and with him the great pavilion. King Faerlthann and the nobles of Cormyr were alone in the smoky dawn of their first day.