Evermeet: Island of Elves

16

715 DR

A light snow fell upon the forests of Evermeet. Big, downy flakes whirled and spun as they drifted through the winter-bare trees. A few of the flakes clung to Zaor Moonflower's hair, looking like icy stars amid the twilight sheen of the elf's luxuriant, dark-blue locks.

But Zaor was oblivious to the beauty of the forest and the striking image he himself presented. He was an elf in the prime of life, and had seen and done much in his two centuries. Though the passing years had left little mark on him, no one who set eyes upon him would mistake him for a callow youth.

For one thing, Zaor was exceedingly tall, and nearly as muscular as a human warrior. At more than a hand-breadth over six feet, he was a giant among elves. His coloring was striking as well, for his hair was the most unusual color known to the Moon elf people-a deep, glowing blue that brought to mind sapphires or stormy seas.

And there was nothing of youth in Zaor's eyes. They were also blue, and flecked with gold, yet their natural luster was dimmed by a deep and profound sadness. Those eyes had seen more battle, more death, more horror, than most elves who could claim his years and more.

Zaor had not been long in Evermeet. He was one of the few survivors of Myth Drannor's fall who had sought refuge in the island kingdom.

But for Zaor, Evermeet brought no peace. Even a year after that final siege, his ears still echoed with the cries of dying Myth Drannor, and he still felt the emptiness, like a physical pain, left behind when the mithal that had upheld the wondrous city had been destroyed.

Indeed, Zaor had found nothing but bitterness in the company of the island's elves. The people of fabled Leuthilspar, with their endless petty intrigues and their deeply entrenched sense of privilege, simply galled him. Perhaps if they had spent a quarter of their hoarded wealth and wasted energies on the defense of Myth Drannor, the city might not have fallen!

But even as the thought formed, Zaor knew there was little truth in it. All his life he had battled the foes who pressed the wondrous city. That was his task, and his calling. He was a ranger, and the forests surrounding Myth Drannor were his to keep. And because he was a ranger, he had not been within the walls during the final siege, and thus he had survived the last, terrible battle.

Zaor Moonflower had survived, but the guilt of his continued existence pressed heavily upon him.

It did not seem right, that he should be alive when so many thousands-indeed, a whole civilization-had died. He felt he could not bear to see such a thing happen again. Yet the elves of Evermeet-who were so like the people of Myth Drannor in their pride and complacency-were as much at risk as that lost city had been.

Zaor sighed and lowered his gaze to the fresh blanket of snow, willing his mind to imitate the smooth, untroubled surface.

His eyes narrowed as they fell upon a strange mark. The elf dropped to one knee to examine it more closely. The mark was like that of a horse's hoof, but slightly cloven and far more delicate. And it was not so much a print, but a glittering shadow upon the snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I heard."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cannot, or will not?" Zaor pressed.

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

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

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

"We will meet again, though?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who ruled the sword, would also rule Evermeet.

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

"I know that you possess the finest mind of any battlemaster I've met," the ranger insisted.

With a wry grin, Keryth lifted his cup as if to toast himself. "And the strongest sword arm, too."

"We'll contest that matter another day," Zaor retorted good-naturedly. "But if you haven't the sense to pick a battle you've a hope of winning, perhaps I will have to revise my opinion of your skills as battlemaster!"

The friends joined in a brief chuckle. The third member of their trio, a slight, silver-haired Moon elf about Keryth's age, fixed a thoughtful gaze upon Zaor. "You have a plan," he observed.

"A plan? I wouldn't put it quite that high," Zaor said in a dry tone. "A notion, perhaps. If it works, then we'll call it a plan."

"Agreed. What's your notion, then?"

"It seems to me that an elf's worth must be proven, and that there is no time like the moment at hand."

Myronthilar Silverspear nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He put down his cup and swept the tavern with his calm silver gaze. "By Corellon, it looks as if half the city guard drinks in this place!"

"The half that's on duty, no doubt," Keryth put in.

"All the better." Zaor turned to Myronthilar. "You first?"

The small elf lifted a silver brow. "But of course."

Myron hopped lightly from his stool and strolled over to where a cluster of guards, Gold elves all, lolled indolently over a table littered with bottles and goblets. One of them eyed the Moon elf with a supercilious smile, then elbowed his neighbor. He said something that sent a ripple of laughter through the group.

Watching this, Zaor lifted a hand to his lips to hide a smirk. The haughty elves were due for a lesson in the importance of open minds and keen observation. Had they the wit to look beyond their first impression, they would never have discounted the small Moon elf.

There was a remarkable economy about Myronthilar's every movement, a precision and purpose to each step and gesture. He was like a dagger: slender, finely honed, perfectly balanced-and deadly. The results of this encounter, Zaor mused, would be a good start to the necessary reeducation of Evermeet's elves.

Myronthilar stopped and regarded the assembly soberly. "Well met, Saida Evanara," he said politely, regarding a suddenly wary Gold elf female. "I'm afraid I must be the bearer of ill news. Myth Drannor has fallen."

The female's eyes narrowed. "And well I know it. I was there until the final battle ended!"

"Yes, I have heard minstrels sing that tale," Myron said. "Paid minstrels. There are others, though, whose stories claim that you ran like a rat." He looked around the elegant taproom. "Of course, such as they would never perform in so fine an establishment as this."

Saida's face flushed with outrage. "How dare you! Never in my life have I been so insulted!"

"Actually, that is not entirely true. You really ought to listen to a wider range of bardic tales," Myron said helpfully.

One of the guards leaped to his feet and stood menacingly over the diminutive Moon elf. "Have a care how you speak. Saida Evanara is my kinswoman," he said in a low, ominous tone.

"You have my sympathy," the Moon elf returned. "Of course, since none of us can chose our kin, I shall not hold that against you."

The elf scowled and reached for his sword with a slow, dramatic flourish. A look of utter befuddlement crossed his face when his fingers closed around an empty scabbard. His puzzled frown was chased away by an expression of sheer panic as he regarded the length of steel at his throat. It was very familiar steel. Myron had beat him to the draw-and with his own sword!

The Moon elf lifted the "borrowed" blade to his forehead in a mocking salute.

Saida hissed with rage and leaped to her feet. Before she could draw her weapon, Myron tossed her the stolen blade. Instinctively, she caught it, and then lunged. The Moon elf dodged, spun, and parried Saida's second attack-with her sword.

With her free hand, Saida groped at the scabbard at her hip, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes. It was indeed empty. Her eyes narrowed with malevolence.

"You're quick, Gray," the Evanara warrior admitted as she shifted into battle stance. "But when I'm finished with you, you'll think you've been stomped by a warhorse!"

"I've heard that," Myron said conversationally. "You really ought to chose lovers less inclined to bemoan their experiences."

"Enough!" snarled the guard whose sword Saida wielded. "By Corellon, I will have your hide tanned for shoe leather!"

The enraged elf leaped at Myronthilar. He never came close. In fact, he never touched the floor. Instead, he found himself gasping for air, his feet dangling, as he looked into the eyes of the biggest elf he had ever seen- a blue-haired giant who held him aloft with one hand by the collar of his uniform, as a boy might hoist a puppy by the scruff of the neck.

"As you can see, the quessir is already engaged," Zaor said, referring to Myron in the term reserved for noble elven males. "If it is the custom of the guard to fight two and three against one, by all means-choose an assortment of your comrades and I will be happy to oblige you."

The elf's face, already red from his struggle for air, turned purple with rage. Three of the guards leaped to their feet and rushed to his defense. The Moon elf casually tossed his captive at them, bringing all four down in a heap.

Myron and Saida were fully engaged now, and the ring and clash of their weapons filled the tavern with grim music. The remaining two guards rose from the table to take the blue-haired elf's challenge. They reached for their swords, only to find that their scabbards were empty, as well.

They whirled. Behind them stood Keryth, a sword in each hand. "Excuse me," he said politely, walking past the bemused elves to hand one of the blades to Zaor. He turned the other sword and offered it hilt-first to its owner.

"My apologies for the inconvenience, but you see, my friend cannot fight you with his own sword. Bad form, you know, using a moonblade in a tavern brawl-especially against honorable People such as yourselves."

In almost comic unison, the guards turned to stare at the sword on Zaor's hip. A mixture of chagrin and grudging respect dawned on their faces. One of the elves, a raven-haired male who wore the insignia of a captain, rose to his feet. He wiped a line of blood from his chin with his sleeve and eyed Zaor with genuine curiosity.

"What's this about, then?"

"I wish to apply for a position in the guard," Zaor said.

A dry chuckle escaped the captain. "You chose an unusual way to do so! Why didn't you just come right out and say you were a moonfighter? No order or regiment would refuse you."

"Had I done so, would you have considered my friends, as well?"

"No," the captain admitted. "Though they are as quick and skilled as any elf under my command."

Zaor tactfully declined to point out the obvious flaw in the captain's claim. "The three of us, then," he pressed.

The Gold elf shrugged. "Done."

At that moment a sharp thud resounded through the tavern. They turned, observing as Saida gritted her teeth and tugged at the blade embedded in the living wood of the tavern wall. Myronthilar, who had just sidestepped her lunge, was examining his fingernails in an exaggerated gesture of patience.

"One more thing. Call off your lieutenant before she takes the edge off her kinsman's blade," Zaor requested dryly.

The captain sniffed, as if in derisive agreement. He slanted a look up at the blue-haired elf. "What your friend said of Saida Evanara's courage in battle-was there any truth to it, or was he merely taunting her to start this fight?"

Zaor shrugged. "As to that, you must judge for yourself. Myronthilar Silverspear's words had a purpose, and they served their purpose well. Saida Evanara is under your command. Her measure is not mine to take."

"Fair enough." The captain cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hold!"

Myron responded instantly, dancing back out of his opponent's reach and dropping his sword to a low guard. He inclined his head to Saida, the respectful gesture of one fighter to another to mark the end of an honorable practice match.

But the female stood still, her sword poised for a strike and her entire body quivering with rage and indecision.

"I said hold!" snapped the captain. He strode over to the elf woman and seized her wrist. Saida's gaze snapped onto his face. Her eyes grew wary, then guarded.

"On your command," she agreed, then added, "I would not have struck, captain."

The Gold elf searched her face. "I wonder," he murmured.

He dropped her wrist and turned away. "Follow me to the guard's barracks. You have much to learn."

The three Moon elves exchanged triumphant smiles and fell into step behind the captain. But the Gold elf whirled, and fixed a stare upon the company of guards behind them.

"I was talking," he said grimly, "to you."

Lady Mylaerla Durothil, the formidable matriarch who headed the city's most powerful Gold elf clan, regarded her visitor with interest.

She was not a young elf, and had left the midpoint of her mortal life behind many summers past. But she was not too old to appreciate so handsome an elf as the one who sat before her. If the young captain of the guard had charm enough to waste on an old elf woman, why not give him the chance to use it? More, his plan intrigued her.

"You are certain that Ahskahala Durothil is of my kindred?" Mylaerla asked.

"Beyond a doubt," Zaor said stoutly. "I have made a study of the Durothil linage, and can assure you that she, like you, is a direct descendant of the Rolim Durothil who first settled Evermeet. Her ancestors fought against the dragonflight in the year of Malar's Great Hunt. She is a worthy descendant of all these illustrious elves; moreover, she is the finest, fiercest dragonrider I have ever seen."

"Is it so? Then how is it that she survived Myth Drannor's fall, when so many fine, fierce warriors did not?"

It was a hard question, but an important one. Nearly as important was the manner in which Zaor posed the answer. "Ahskahala has little patience with the habits and concerns of city dwellers," he said carefully. "She preferred to live in the wild places, and she served the People of Cormanthyr by guarding the outposts. But for her efforts, the city would have fallen much sooner than it did. More than one marauding band of orcs or goblins met their end due to her diligence. But her dragon was wounded during the early days of the siege, stranding both of them in their mountain lair. When at last they could take flight, the time for battle had passed."

"Hmm. How would we contact this dragonrider?"

Zaor inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "The abilities of House Durothil in matters of communication are legendary. I do not think this task would pose much challenge to your magi."

"Well said. But what makes you think she would come to Evermeet now?" the elf woman asked shrewdly. "What gain would she hope to find here? Power? Honor? Wealth?"

"Ahskahala has seen one elven culture fall. She would not wish the same on another."

Mylaerla blinked, startled by the young warrior's bluntness. "You think it possible that Evermeet could share Myth Drannor's fate?"

"Don't you?"

For a long moment, the elves regarded each other keenly. Then Mylaerla leaned back in her chair, and a mask seemed to drop from her face.

"You are more right than you know about many things, Zaor Moonflower," she said bitterly. "I cannot tell you how weary I am of the Durothil clan's endless concern with magic-aided chitchat. It was not always so. The first dragonrider was a Durothil-the Durothil. Did you know that?"

Not waiting for an answer, she hissed out an earthy curse and shook her head in frustration. "My clan are descendants of Durothil, and what have we become? Effete, tower-bound layabouts, content to waste our brief centuries of life using magic to exchange gossip and to peek into distant bedchambers! Bah!"

Zaor leaned forward. "There are yet dragons on Evermeet, are there not?"

Mylaerla considered this. "I believe so, yes. I've heard talk of fairly recent sightings of a gold and a mated pair of silvers flying above the Eagle Hills." She lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "If Ahskahala is all you say, I doubt she would have much difficulty in training the dragons to this task. My concern is this: How would she deal with the Durothils of Evermeet and their ilk?"

"Your kindred will not have an easy time of it," Zaor admitted.

The elf woman nodded. "Good," she said with grim satisfaction. "In that case, we will send for her at once."

Hearing the dismissal in her words, Zaor rose to leave.

Mylaerla sighed heavily. Something in the sound froze Zaor in the midst of his polite bow of leave-taking. He straightened and met her eyes, nodding encouragement for her to continue.

"This visit has reminded me of many things I should not have forgotten. For one, I have been too long in this city. It has been many years since I climbed the slopes of Eagle Hills. I do not even know for certain whether there still are dragons upon Evermeet!" She looked up at Zaor, and her smile was strangely tentative. "Tell me something, youngling, do you think that even such as I could ride a dragon?"

As she spoke, a wistful expression crept into her eyes and softened her aging face. But her poignant longing did not in the least blunt the steel in her voice or the forceful impact of her presence.

Zaor could not keep the smile from his face. "My lady, I don't think there's a dragon alive who could keep you from it."

The elf woman burst into surprised and delighted laughter. Still smiling warmly, she rose and extended her hand to the young warrior as one adventurer to another. "Then it is settled. The dragonriders will become Evermeet's guardians. Her shores will be kept inviolate."

"As the gods will," Zaor responded fervently.

Mylaerla cocked her head. "I meant what I said, you know, about learning the craft myself. But what of you? Will you be joining those who ride the winds?"

"Regretfully, no. My responsibility lies elsewhere."

Lady Durothil regarded him for a long moment. Then she nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, it may indeed be so."