Evermeet: Island of Elves

Prelude

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.