Evermeet: Island of Elves

14

The forest trees shook as Malar the Beast Lord screamed his rage into the night sky. Snarling and cursing, he paced the forest and set the mountains of Faerun quivering with the reverberating echoes of his wrath.

This deep inland woodland was his haunt now. Not for him the remote islands and the angry waves of the sea. He was done with Umberlee, and she with him.

Twice now had the goddess of the sea fallen short of Malar's expectations. It was not that Umberlee lacked power, but she was simply too capricious. The goddess had none of Malar's single-minded focus. She was just as happy tormenting sailors off the sunny coasts of Chult as she was speeding human pirates on a raid to Evermeet. If one endeavor should fail, the goddess merely shrugged a white-capped shoulder and turned her attention elsewhere. The seas of Aber-toril were broad, and a single elven island could not hold Umberlee's attention for long.

But Malar wondered if he would ever be able to think of anything else. The passing of centuries had done little to cool his hatred for elves or to blunt his desire to see Corellon Larethian bested. It was becoming increasingly clear, however, that an invasion of Evermeet was no easy matter. Finally wearied by his ranting, the Beast Lord flung himself to the ground. Leaning his black-furred head against the trunk of an ancient oak, he sat and stared with malevolent red eyes up into the blackness of a moonless night. The night was as dark as any he had seen. A fine layer of clouds obscured the stars. This pleased Malar, for starlight was a source of joy and magic to the accursed elves. In his current mood he needed no such reminder of his elusive foes.

A faint, rosy pinprick of light in the eastern sky caught the brooding god's attention. He squinted up, trying to remember what about it seemed so familiar. Suddenly the years fell away, and Malar remembered a distant time, a time of terrible destruction at the hands of the mightiest hunters known to this world.

The god sprang to his feet and sprinted through the forest. To the nearest mountain he ran, and he did not pause until he had left the tree line below him. Finally he stood near the mountaintop. The night sky lay open before him, a naked void of darkness bereft of any light but one.

By now the new star had risen high in the sky, huge and bright enough to shine through the mist. It hung over the mountains, glimmering like a single crimson eye. Malar threw up his arms and crowed with triumph. It was as he thought. The King-Killer had returned.

Perhaps some gods understood the rhythm of the stars, and marked the occasional coming of the brilliant red star. Malar was not such a god. But he remembered one thing-one very important thing. For reasons unknown, when the King-Killer shone bright above Faerun, the dragons gathered and took flight.

At last, Malar knew how best to serve vengeance to Evermeet.

The god began to dance in the dim red light of the King-Killer. Tendrils of godly magic wafted off to search for the Beast Lord's followers, and to slip into the dreams of those who listened. To all his priests and shamans Malar sent the same message:

Gather the faithful. The time has come for a Great Hunt.

The orc horde crashed through the forest, making no effort to conceal their presence or to mute the sound of their approach. There didn't seem to be much point. The path of the dragonflight had passed over this land, leaving a broad swath of charred and lifeless forest.

"Don' know why we's acomin' thisaway," muttered a young, gray-hided orc who trailed along near the end of the procession. This was his first raid, and so far it had fallen far short of his expectations. A Great Hunt, indeed! They had yet to kill a single elf. Even four-legged game was scarce.

His companion shrugged and shifted his own unbloodied spear to the other shoulder. "Vapgard sez come, we come."

"Not find nothing here," the gray grumbled. "Why dragons gotta burn forest, anyhow?"

"Hmmph! You not remember the hungry winter? Hard snow. Too many wolves come south. Hard for orcs to find game."

The gray orc grunted. Of course he remembered. He had not yet been old enough to be accounted a fighter, but he'd been old enough to hunt. His ears still rang with the memories of his mother's blows when he came back to the cave day after day with an empty bag.

"What we do back then?" his companion persisted.

"Ah!" The orc bared his fangs in a grin as he grasped the meaning. "Some orcs burn forest. Other orcs, many many, wait by river."

"I hear Vapgard's brother float boats down river. Boats carry many orcs-more than many. They wait. We come behind." The orc stopped his march and planted his spear into the thick layer of ash. He held up his taloned hands. "Them, us," he said gesturing first with one hand, then the other. With a fierce grin, he smacked his palms together.

"Smash 'em," agreed the gray happily.

So encouraged, the young orc marched without complaint through the remainder of the day. By late afternoon, the horde had left the ruined forest behind. Ancient charred trees gave way to scrub, and then to meadow.

A howl of excitement started at the front of the mob and rippled back through the horde. The orcs began to surge forward. The gray waited for the wave of movement to reach him, and grant him space to run-and to kill.

"Long past time," he grunted when at last he could level his spear. He ran out onto the meadow, noting that the grass was not only dried and brittle from dragonfire, but slick with blood. He pulled up short to keep from stumbling over what appeared to have been the haunch of a wood buffalo. Probably a morsel that fell from some dragon's mouth.

The horde had spread out by now, and the orc had a better view of the battlefield. It was not what he had hoped for.

The field was littered with bodies-some of them forest creatures that the dragons had not eaten, but most of them elves. Some had been torn by massive claws and fangs, some blasted by dragonfire, others melted to the bone by a black dragon's acid breath. The carnage was entertaining to observe, but it offered neither sport nor satiation. The young orc wanted to kill. He needed to kill.

Baring his fangs, he began to zigzag back and forth across the field, imitating the older orcs who kicked and prodded at the elven bodies. Every now and then, one of them found an elf who yet breathed. Each discovery was heralded by triumphant howls, and the sounds of thudding clubs and spears.

But the young orc's status had placed him too near the back of the horde, and he was too late to claim any of the trophies taken that day. It occurred to him, when at last the secondhand battlefield fell silent, that this was not hunting at all, not really. They were more like ravens and wolves, cleaning up after the dragons.

The gray shrugged. Ravens and wolves-these were not so bad to be. And if he could not kill elves today, then tomorrow was nearly as good. The river was but a half day's march to the south. Along the edge of the river was a large elven settlement. Though it had been fortified with walls and magic, it would fall readily enough. How could it not? The forest elves, archers and fighters who were the city's advance defenders, were all dead. Moreover, the dragonflight usually followed the course of the river, and surely dragonfire had tumbled parts of the walls, perhaps even toppled those wicked Towers. And there were many, many orcs on the move, orcs who were in near-frenzy from their first taste of slaughter.

Tomorrow, the elven city. Tomorrow, the joy of the hunt and the pride of many trophies would be his.

Chandrelle Durothil, the powerful daughter of Evermeet's high councilor, led her Circle in yet another spell of summoning. Even through the deep concentration of the spell, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of dragonflight beyond the tower windows-the thumping of giant wings, the screams and roars the massive creatures emitted as they wheeled and swooped.

She could also feel the powerful crackle of the magic that thrummed through the air. On all of Aber-toril, no creatures, not even the elves, were as inherently magical as the dragons. Only the rebirth of the dragonriders, the union of dragons and elves in an incredible joining of magic, offered the elves hope of survival against the approachng orc hordes.

The elves of Faerun were not the only people to suffer from the flight of rampaging dragons. Wars between the races of dragons had been long and costly. Now the evil dragons of the south-red dragons, mostly, with a few smaller but no less deadly blacks-gathered together in nearly unprecedented numbers for the northward migration. Along the way, they deliberately destroyed the holdings of the peace-loving wyrms. Bronze dragons found their lakes reduced to drifting steam and cracked, lifeless beds. Gouts of flame melted rock, sealing entrances to the caves of silver and gold dragons and trapping many of the creatures within.

Chandrelle had been among the first elves to travel through the new gates that in recent years had linked Evermeet to the mainland. Her husband, a newcomer and a distant relative who also bore the name Durothil, had helped establish the gate between Evermeet and the city of his birth.

Now the city lay in near ruin. Once, it had been a fair place, protected by walls and powerful magic, and situated on the banks of a broad, trout-filled river. Dragonfire had destroyed the farmlands and forests beyond, and had blasted huge gaps in the walls. An entire quarter lay in smoking ruins. Only the mithal, a powerful shield of magic, had kept the city from utter destruction.

But the Tower still stood, High magi joined with the scores of other magi sent from Evermeet to help buttress the tower. They chanted powerful spells that summoned and bound the goodly dragons. In ancient times, dragonriders trained their mounts from birth, bonding to them with deep and mystical connections. There was no time for this now.

Shouts of excitement from the city below alerted the magi to their success. Chandrelle skillfully tapered off the flow of power and released the magi from their collective spellcasting.

"Seven more have come," she said in a voice that still thrummed with power. "There are now enough dragons for us all."

Along with the other mages, Chandrelle hurried from the tower to greet the newcomers. One of the dragons, a gold female, stepped forward and dipped her massive head in a gesture of respect to the High Mage.

"We have heard what you plan to do," the dragon announced in a voice that shook the Tower. "It is madness."

"It is needed," Chandrelle insisted. "Your people cannot fight the evil dragons alone, nor can we. We need your powers of flight to overtake and surround those who fly north. You need our High Magic to stop them."

"And when they are slain? What then?"

"Then your kind can once again live in peace, and we elves can rebuild our cities."

The dragon shook her golden head. "So much power, so little wisdom," she murmured.

"You will not help us?" Chandrelle pressed.

"We have little choice. Your magic compelled us to come-it compels most of us to serve."

It was not the endorsement that Chandrelle would have liked, but it would have to do. The mage quickly explained to the newly arrived dragons their part in the plan. Hastily fashioned saddles were brought and strapped onto the creatures. Today was the practice flight. There could be only one.

Excitement mingled with trepidation as Chandrelle climbed onto her dragon mount. Dragonriders had used magic for centuries, but never before had a Circle attempted to join together while riding dragons!

The creature's wings unfolded with a loud, booming crash. Before Chandrelle could catch her breath, the dragon was airborne.

As a High Mage of Evermeet, during her years in the Towers of Aryvandaar, Chandrelle had seen many wonders. None of them equalled dragonflight for sheer exhilaration. They soared upward like a shooting star in reverse. In moments the city was as vague as a forgotten dream, the river a mere ribbon. The elf threw back her head and laughed into the racing wind.

When the clouds lay below them like mounds of snow and mist, the dragon leveled off and began to circle. Other dragons broke through the clouds, and one by one they fell into formation. It was time for the casting to begin.

Chandrelle sank deep into herself, seeking the magic that flowed through her and with it reaching out to the minds of the other magi. One by one, she pulled them into the Weave. The elf gathered the threads and wove them into a single spell of destruction-the most powerful spell attempted since that which had sundered the One Land in a time of legend.

At first light the following day, the High Magi and their dragon mounts gathered for final preparations. Their mood was somber, even though the testing of the spell had gone well. Perhaps, because it had gone so well. The magnitude of the destruction they would soon unleash was not an easy thing to contemplate.

Nevertheless, more than a hundred pairs of dragons and riders took to the air that morning. They climbed high into the sky until they were well above the sunrise clouds, and then flew with magically enhanced swiftness toward the north.

The path of the dragonflight was not difficult to follow. Sometimes in search of prey to fuel their flight, sometimes just for the love of destruction, the evil dragons burned the land and slaughtered all the creatures they found. Black and red these dragons were, and in the charred and blood-soaked land they left a grim reflection of themselves.

Before highsun, the dragonriders overtook their quarry. The horde of evil dragons swept low to the ground, intent upon their orgy of destruction. At that height the winds were capricious, the air thick with a blend of morning mist and smoke from the burning woodlands. The evil dragons could not fly as swiftly as those that pursued them.

At a signal from Chandrelle, the dragonriders dispersed and began to form a wide circle over the horde of dragons below. They flew in careful formation, like an enormous flock of glittering gold and silver geese.

The elven magi began the chant, summoning the magic and spinning it in a dizzy circle. Together they formed a whirling cone of air and magic, a storm larger than any the world had known, and sent it plunging down toward the dragons below.

There was no warning, no time for the migrating dragons to pull away from the attack. One moment, the sounds filling the air were those of their own making: the boom and crackle of the burning woodlands, the distant cries of fear and pain from the forest creatures below, their own triumphant roars. All these were muted, suddenly and completely, by the descending cone of magic.

The whirling winds caught the dragons and spun them helplessly about. Many were killed in the first sudden rush of explosive sound and power. Their enormous bodies acted as bludgeons as the wind whipped them against their still-living comrades.

Nor did the destruction stop there. Burning trees were torn from their roots and sucked up into the vortex. Within moments, the whirling cloud was a ghastly shade of reddish gray, a mixture of smoke and carnage.

The gold and silver dragons above instinctively shied away from the force in their midst, fearing, despite the success of the day before, that they themselves might be drawn into the surging, killing magic.

But as suddenly as it came, the whirlwind died. A terrible black and crimson storm rained down upon the blasted countryside as the slain dragons-perhaps as many as two hundred-were released from the terrible vortex.

And just as suddenly, Chandrelle was falling. The magic she had fashioned was gone. For the first time in her life a spell had disappeared too fast for her to withdraw carefully. Dimly, she noted that her grasping hands still held the dragon's reins, that the forest below was still passing by in the giddy blur of dragonflight. Her mortal body was safe, but nonetheless, she was falling.

Instinctively, the mage realized what had occurred. The death of so many dragons, so many magical creatures, had severely torn the fabric of the Weave. Her own magical essence, which had been bound inextricably into the casting of this spell, has been ripped free of the mortal world along with the dragons her magic had slain. She was dead. Her body simply had not yet had the chance to grasp this reality.

As if from a distance, Chandrelle saw her form grow translucent and fade away into motes of golden light. Her dragon mount seemed dazed and confused by the sudden break in the magical bond they had shared. The creature veered wildly aside-directly into the path of a venerable silver dragon.

The crash of impact reverberated over the ruined land. The silver's elven rider was thrown off; the mage's limbs floated limply as he spun helplessly, unknowingly, down toward the uprushing ground. The pair of dragons grappled helplessly as they strove to release themselves from the tangle of wings and elven livery.

Too late they broke apart. Just as Chandrelle's dragon managed to spread her wings, the massive, jagged trunk of a pine thrust up through her body like a spear. The impaled dragon struggled briefly, then sagged down, a glint of tarnished gold against the charred landscape. The silver dragon pulled into a glide, but there was nowhere for him to go. Nearby the flames had flared up high and hot, stoked into a frenzy by the swirling winds. The dragon's brief and desperate flight ended in a thick bank of black smoke, and the sucking winds that swept him toward the crackling inferno beyond.

Vhoori Durothil, the High Councilor of Evermeet, listened in silence to the grim tidings brought from Sumbrar's tower.

A flight of dragons was wending its way northward across Faerun, laying waste to the land. Many elven settlements had fallen, either as prey to the dragons or to the ravening orcs and goblins that followed in their wake.

"What of the dragonriders?" he asked. "My daughter Chandrelle sent word of her plan. We have sent many High Magi to support her."

A long silence met his words.

The mage's old friend, Brindarry Nierde had risen nearly as high in his chosen work as had Vhoori. The Gold elf warrior now commanded not only Sumbrar, but all of Evermeet's fighters.

The mage sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew all too well that light in his friend Brindarry's eyes-a near manic eagerness for battle. Clearly, the elven warrior had a plan in mind. "What do you recommend?"

"We cannot ignore the suffering of the People. There are a few magical gates between the island and the mainland. I say we create more. Many more."

"Those are not easily created, and should never be used lightly. The cost of magical travel is high."

"And the cost paid by the mainland elves is not?" retorted Brindarry. "We must send warriors to help counter the orcs and Circles of High Magi to fight the dragons."

"And what of Evermeet? If we do as you suggest, her defenses will be dangerously reduced."

Brindarry sniffed. "I think not. Under your leadership, the island has been secured against all possible attack. When was the last time anyone saw a scrag or a sahuagin? When was the last time a hostile ship came anywhere near the island? Between the Guardians and the Starwing fleet, no foe can get near."

"Say that I agree with you," Vhoori suggested. "Even so, the council almost certainly will not."

"Then dissolve the council. Their time has passed." The mage considered this. Elven tradition had long considered the best governance to be a council of elders, a body that would give advice through collective wisdom rather than enforce compliance through power. Though the People nearly always followed the council's advice, they put high value on individual thought and freedom of personal choice. The elves of Evermeet would resist bitterly any perceived attempt to curtail these long-held rights.

On the other hand, news of the mainland troubles would send many elves scurrying to arms. Some of them had not been long in Evermeet, and many of these newcomers had near kin living in the areas scourged by the dragonflight. Other elves held firmly to the principle of unity among the People, and would fight just as fiercely for a stranger as they would their own kin. And regardless of personal circumstances, all the elves of Evermeet shared a sense of destiny, and their place in it. Evermeet represented hope and haven for all elves. In times of such darkness, hope must be brought to the elves who were too beleaguered to seek it. Even if the council voted otherwise, the elves, with a little encouragement, would almost certainly rally in great numbers to the rescue of their distant kin.

And when Evermeet was nearly emptied of warriors and magic, when the noble clans who held council seats were busy elsewhere, Vhoori Durothil would declare himself king. Who would gainsay him, when the battles were over? Not even the most querulous Gray elf on the council could argue with success.

"Start gathering your forces," Vhoori said. "We will summon the Circles, and begin creation of the gates at once."

Back in the shattered elven city, Brindarry Nierde stood ready with his warriors. In the first moments of dragonflight, Chandrelle Durothil had spotted the advancing orcs and had sent word to him through one of her father's speaking gems. Brindarry was ready, even eager, for the battle to begin.

He had lived all his life on Evermeet, and so he had never had the opportunity to fight the People's traditional enemy. In his mind, this day he and his would relive the legendary battle of Corellon Larethian and Gruumsh One-Eye. His elves would prevail just as surely as did Corellon, and they would join in the legends and the glory of the elven god of battle.

Suddenly the Gold elf's senses tingled weirdly. Something had changed, something important. It felt rather like the rain and mist of a summer shower had disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving the skies utterly dry and clear. To the elf's fey sensibilities, the air suddenly felt-thin. Empty.

"The mithal," breathed the elf, understanding what had happened. The magical shield that had staved off the city's utter destruction was no more.

A moment's panic swept through the warrior. He was confident of his skills and those of his elven fighters, but he acknowledged the cost of a failure would be enormous. If the defenders should fall, the gate to Evermeet would be left open. Never had Brindarry imagined that it might be possible for orcs to set foot upon the island.

The warrior snatched up the speaking gem that linked him to Chandrelle Durothil. The stone was cold and silent, the magic gone. Chandrelle was dead. The dragonriders would not be returning to lend their combination of dragon and elven magic to the battle.

Brindarry possessed one more magical gem, one that was even more powerful. He tugged a golden pendant from beneath his tunic and focused all his will upon the large, smooth stone set into it. In moments, the angular face of Vhoori Durothil appeared within.

There was little time for words, no time at all for explanations. Already the city resounded with the clash of weapons along the breached walls, and the dull thuds of bombards as the orcs sought to batter down the riverside gates.

"What is it, my friend?" Vhoori demanded. "I hear battle. Do you need aid? More warriors, magic? What can I do?"

Just then the vast wooden gate splintered, and orcs spilled through the city wall like water through a broken dam. Brindarry pulled his sword and spoke his final words to his dearest friend.

"There is but one thing you can do. Close the gates to Evermeet."

Two days passed before seven dragons and their elven partners limped back to the city. The survivors found a river polluted with the bodies of thousands slain, streets that were red with dried blood, beautiful buildings reduced to rubble. Even the Tower, one of the proudest survivors of the High Magic tradition of ancient Aryvandaar, had been tumbled and despoiled.

The elves camped that night in the ruined city. Even the dragons bedded down in empty courtyards and ruined marketplaces, and attempted to tend their wounds and gather their wits. The fey creatures that had survived the dragonriders' battle were left dazed and stunned by the aftermath of the spell.

None of the remaining magi could agree on what to do next. The magical gates had been closed-they could not return to Evermeet by such means. It was unlikely that new gates would be created soon. The island kingdom had been drained of both wizards and warriors. The few remaining High Magi on Evermeet would have other, more pressing work, and the warriors were too few to protect new gates against possible invasion. One thing was clear: The personal power of any single surviving mage was not what it had been. The destruction of the evil dragons might have saved many elven lives, but the damage to the fabric of the Weave was beyond measure.

In the years that followed, the stranded magi of Evermeet scattered like autumn leaves. Some stayed near the river to rebuild the city, or took off into the forest in search of other elven settlements. Others had been entranced and entrapped by their taste of dragonflight, and stayed to form bonds with their dragon mounts.

Not long after the crimson star known as King-Killer faded unmourned from the sky, a new wonder appeared in the heavens. A scattering of small, glowing lights began to follow the moon in her path through the night sky, like goslings pattering faithfully after their mother.

The poets named this phenomena the Tears of Selune. No one knew for certain what they were, or what they meant. Some of the elves took heart at the sight, remembering the legends that claimed the People were born through the mingled blood of Corellon and the tears of the moon. The dwindling number of People, the destruction of so many of their ancient cultures-this, they claimed, was about to end.

Others argued that the Tears of Selune were a sign of the gods' favor, a mark of approval for the tremendous heights the elves had reached in their mastery of magic.

In truth, the appearance of these heavenly bodies represented, if anything, the end of an era.

Slowly, inexorably, High Magic was disappearing from the land. A few isolated enclaves of such magic still stood: Darthiir Wood, Winterwood, Tangletrees, Evermeet. Among the elven seers were those who predicted that soon such magic could be cast only on Evermeet. As this grim prediction came closer and closer to fruition, the island haven took on a whole new level of meaning to the elves.

Vhoori Durothil had been wrong about a good many things. He never ascended the throne of Evermeet, though he and his descendants controlled the council for many years to come. Evermeet's resources were not without limit, as the attempted rescue showed.

But about one thing Durothil was entirely correct: A new era was beginning for the elves. It was not to be the golden era he envisioned, but a time of great trouble and confusion. Evermeet's importance grew as the troubles of the mainland elves steadily increased.

It seemed to many elves that the tears of the moon-the very thing that legend credited with the birth of the elven people-might well signal their end upon Faerun. 11th day of Flamerule, 1368 DR

To Danilo Thann does Athol of Candlekeep send greetings. Reluctantly.

Very well, I read your last letter, and the one before it, and the several that preceded them. In truth, I shudder to contemplate what your bills for parchment and ink must be.

But this, I suppose, is the way it should be. If you are to do this task and do it well, you must be relentless and prolific in your pursuit of information. That does not mean, however, that you cannot be brief.

Start by sparing me your fine flourishes and your flattery. Though I doubt not your sincerity, such niceties only serve to raise my hackles. Perhaps this is because I remember all too well the times you insisted that she who named me must have been speaking with a lisp.

Be that as it may.

I regret that I cannot send you the volume you last requested. It is an ancient book, perhaps one of the five oldest in this library, and its fragile pages and bindings would not survive the trip. The best I could do was to hire a scribe to copy it for you. Enclosed herewith are some sample pages. If you are satisfied with the effort, I will engage her to complete the work. A reasonable fee for such a task would be 5,000 gold pieces-it would be considerably more, but the scribe is a first-year student.

And yes, I am still cheaper than an ugly courtesan, to coin one of your youthful gibes. Though I must admit the reason for bothering with frugality eludes me; after all, I am spending your money, not mine.

I am returning with this letter the ink powder that you sent me. Perhaps it truly does glow in the dark, but I have no desire to stand in the spot where lightning once struck me.

The excerpt from the lorebook Of Blades and Blooded Honor you requested follows.

Regards, Athol the Beardless It was the time of man.

To many elves, it seemed that the humans flourished in all things even as they, the children of Corellon, faded.

As the number of People dwindled like sands slipping through an hourglass, the humans swelled their ranks at an indecent rate. The elven communities retreated into the forests as humans spread out into every land and every clime. As High Magic became a rare and secret thing, human mages discovered ancient scrolls that enabled them to reach in their few short years of life incredible levels of power. Mighty human kingdoms had risen-and fallen. Fabled Netheril was a memory, but from its ashes magelords were rising to command the settlements and cities of the northlands. The humans pressed even into the deep forest, seeking to settle amid the ancient trees and pleasant dales that were the elves' last stronghold on Faerun.

Everywhere, contact between elves and humans was increasing. Half-elves, once rare and pitiable beings who were almost invariably the result of war crimes, were becoming almost common. As a people, the elves were not at all certain what to make of these developments, nor were they of a single mind concerning how best to deal with the ubiquitous humans. On one thing all agreed, however: Evermeet must remain sacred to the People.

Few humans knew of Evermeet. Most who heard the tales thought of the island as an elven fancy, a legendary place of wonder and beauty and harmony. But there were a few, mostly sea-going folk, who had reason to know that something existed in the distant western seas. Those who ventured too far into the sunset were met by terrible storms, bands of warlike Sea elves, and magical barriers of all kinds. These hearty men-those few who survived these encounters-began to speak more often of the rich island kingdom in the sea.

The image of Evermeet that emerged was colored by the humans' experience with the elves of Faerun. The humans thought that the island, if it existed at all, was a place of serene beauty and utter harmony, where elves joined as one in their pursuit of the arts of magic and warfare, and to contemplate the wonders of sky and forest.

The truth was something rather different.

For millennia, the noble Gold elf families of Evermeet had vied for control of the ruling Council of Elders. Most often, the Durothil clan held sway, but this right was strongly contested by the Nierde, the Nimesin, and the Starym families. Nor were the Moon elven clans content to leave the positions of power and influence uncontested.

The disputes between the races and the clans never actually devolved into warfare, but the island became a warren of intrigue. Elven culture, which had once been focused upon the creation of beauty and the assurance of a strong defense, focused instead upon the art of political maneuverings. Clans vied with each other in their wealth, their forces at arms, and in the stockpiling of magical weaponry.

Predictably enough, at this time the most powerful seat of elven culture was not Evermeet at all, but the forest of Cormanthyr. As ambitious Gold elves came to realize this, many of them began to leave the island and settle in the burgeoning cities of Cormanthyr.

But even there, differences arose among these clans. The Nierde elves were generally willing to compromise with the Moon elves and the forest elves who had proceeded them. They even tolerated the insurgence of humans, halflings, and dwarves into the forest community. But the more xenophobic of the Gold clans-among others the Starym, Nimesin and Ni'Tessine-loudly proclaimed the need for isolation.

After much debate, the Elven Council of Cormanthyr opened the forest lands to human settlement. The Standing Stone was raised as a monument to peace and cooperation among the many races. That much of the story is well-known. But long before this year, a year of events so great that it became a measure by which time was reckoned, other, more secret events had occurred that were to shape the very course of the elven race.

When the long destruction of the Crown Wars had finally come to an end (about -9000 by Dale Reckoning) some elves became concerned that such a period of strife might come yet again in the long history of the elves. They were determined to do everything in their power to prevent such a disaster.

There was in Cormanthyr at this time an ancient elven seer known as Ethlando, a survivor from the ancient kingdom of Aryvandaar. He believed that this increasing division among the elves could lead to the destruction of all. Ethlando had lived long past the normal years for an elf, and was well into his second millennia of life. He was widely believed to have a special connection with the Seldarine, for the visions that were granted him proved infallible. Even in small matters, his word was greatly respected in the land. Oftentimes his opinion was sought-and followed-when arbitration between the more contentious clans was necessary.

During the years when Cormanthyr's fate was still hotly debated, Ethlando declared that Evermeet must be ruled by a single royal family-this, he claimed, was the will of the gods. The plan that he gave for the selection of this clan was so complex, so dependent upon a magic beyond the reach of mortal mages, that the Council decided that the Seldarine did indeed speak through the seer.

On one matter, though, they held firm: Ethlando insisted that only Moon elf clans could apply for this honor. But the Gold elves held sway in Cormanthyr, and the ruling class decreed that all noble clans-excepting of course the drow elves-who wished to make a claim for Evermeet's throne could do so.

Three hundred master weaponsmiths were chosen, and each was charged with creating a single sword. Though each artisan was given license in the crafting, certain things were to be constant. All were to be double-edged broadswords, and the hilt of each was to be set with a large moonstone. Of all the gems known to elves, the moonstone was the purest, most fluid conductor of magic. Yet the swordcrafters were not to imbue the weapons with any magical powers whatsoever. That, Ethlando insisted, would come when the time was right.

By the year of the Standing Stone, the swords were completed. In due time, the question of elven royalty would be settled beyond question or dispute.