Evermeet: Island of Elves

20

Amlaruil tried to look sternly upon the identical scamps standing before her, their tousled blue heads hanging sheepishly low and bare toes scuffing at the polished marble floor.

It was difficult, though, to summon anything resembling maternal wrath over the boys' latest misdeed. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep from sweeping both of them up into her arms and forgiving them outright for this, any past and all future offenses.

Xharlion and Zhoron, her twin sons, were small replicas of their warrior father. Sturdy and stubborn, they had inherited Zaor's sharp features-right down to the dent in the center of their chins-and their father's distinctive sapphire-colored curls. Amlaruil could not help but smile wistfully whenever she looked upon them, a blessing which came to her all too seldom.

"You boys are under the fosterage of Lord and Lady Craulnober," she reminded them with mock severity. "You are to obey them as you would me, and study with diligence all the things they would have you learn."

"But dancing?" Xharlion exclaimed, spitting out the word with exquisite disdain. "What need have warriors of Evermeet for that?"

"It is the custom of the Craulnobers to teach all the young elves in their care the ways of court life as well as the skills of the battlefield," Amlaruil reminded him. "It is, I might add, a custom with which I wholeheartedly agree. Life does not present us with a single task, and an elven noble must be able to comport himself well in many circumstances. And what have you against dancing, anyway? It is as important to an elf, and as natural, as magic!"

"Well, the two things aren't so bad, when you put 'em together," Zhoron observed, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. The twins exchanged a sly look. Their shoulders shook as they snickered at their shared memory of the morning's events.

Amlaruil struggled to keep from joining in. The image of the primly sedate Chichlandra Craulnober shrieking and clutching at her fly-away skirts was almost Amlaruil's undoing.

"You should not have enspelled Lady Chichlandra to dance upon the ceiling rather than the floor," she admonished them.

"Lady Chicken-legs," Zhoron improvised, setting the twins off in another bout of giggles. "That one ought to wear longer bloomers, I'd say!"

"Dances like a chicken, too, she does," Xharlion said. He tucked his hands high up on his sides, flapping his elbows like wings as he minced through the first steps of a roundelay. His small face was set in an eerily precise imitation of Lady Chichlandra's tight, prissy smile.

At last Amlaruil succumbed to a chuckle, which earned her a pair of identical, conspiratorial grins.

"Do not think for a moment that I approve," she cautioned the boys. "Whatever your opinion of Lady Chichlandra's dancing-or her legs, for that matter-you need to show her proper respect. Terrifying and embarrassing your hostess is not the sort of behavior I expect from you."

The genuine disappointment in her voice finally pierced the twins' high spirits. They mumbled apologies, and when Amlaruil dismissed them, they actually walked from the room and down the hall that led to the garden, rather than bolting headlong through the open window as was their usual custom. In moments, however, they had found wooden swords and were bashing at each other with great gusto, emitting battle whoops lusty enough to give pause to a well-armed ogre.

Amlaruil sighed as she watched the boys at play. "My work in the Towers keeps me from them far too much."

"They are being well taught here, lady," Rennyn Aelorothi assured her, coming from the shadows to stand beside the mage. The Gold elf was a frequent visitor to Craulnober Keep, and he had come to look upon the twins as his personal charges. "There is no finer swordmaster than Elanjar Craulnober on all of Evermeet."

The mage turned to smile at Rennyn. "Why, I never thought to hear such sentiments from you concerning any Silver elf!" she teased him.

Rennyn responded with a shrug. "I have seen much in the last ten years. Things are not so simple as I once thought them, nor are the Gold elves quite the paragons we like to think ourselves. There are elven cultures that, although very different from that of Evermeet, are worthy of respect."

"So you said, earlier. Tell me more about the elves of the Moonshaes," she prompted, knowing that her young advisor was eager to speak more on the matter, having recently returned from a trip to these islands.

"They are fierce fighters and fine riders-on horseback, they are as nimble as centaurs," Rennyn began, speaking with great enthusiasm. "Their magic is different from ours, too, and very much a part of the land. Even an elf would have a difficult time finding their valley, for it is hidden from common view by magic." He paused. "In fact, this sheltered valley might be the very place for restless young princes to begin exploring the world."

Amlaruil nodded thoughtfully as she watched the warring twins. Their play had progressed from sheer exuberance to fierce competition. As she watched, they threw aside their swords and leaped at each other. They fell together, rolling and pummeling as they went at it with fists and feet. Fortunately for Amlaruil's peace of mind, it appeared that the twins were dealing far more damage to Lady Craulnober's flower beds than to each other.

"They are too like their father in that they will need to find or form kingdoms of their own," she mused. "I fear there is little future for them here on Evermeet, since Ilyrana seems destined to rule."

"The Sonorian Valley may have need of such warriors as Xharlion and Zhoron will become," Rennyn said. "The elves are secure enough now, but I fear for them as humans become more numerous on the island. Perhaps the presence of the young princes will help persuade the elves to set up a gate between Evermeet and their valley."

"A fine idea," she commended him. "You have done well, Rennyn, in forming ties with other elven settlements, and in training the Ahmaquissar elves to follow your example."

The elf bowed. "I thank you for your words, my lady. They remind me, however, of my fear that we will soon lose the services of one of our agents. Nevarth Ahmaquissar."

"Oh?"

"He wishes to remain in the High Forest, in the company of a young elf woman."

"Ah." Amlaruil nodded in sympathy, even if she found the image hard to conjure. Nevarth was a roguish, carefree elf who changed ladyloves with a frequency that rivaled that of the new moons. "You have met this girl?"

A troubled look crossed Rennyn's face. "I have. She is very beautiful, and very bewitching. I suppose I can see why Nevarth is taken with her."

The mage heard and understood her agent's hesitation. Though she knew full well the power of young love, she also knew that Nevarth had trained long and hard to win his place among the High Mage's advisors. He would not lightly cast it aside.

"Perhaps I should summon him home, and try to learn more about his intentions."

"That would be wise. If you please, lady, I would as soon not be present when you speak to him." Rennyn paused, and again he looked disturbed. "He would not thank me for speaking against his ladylove. He is very jealous of her, and has already accused me of trying to come between them, thus to win her favors for myself."

Amlaruil frowned. That was very unlike Nevarth. He was sounding less and less like an elf enamored, and more like one ensorcelled. "I will speak to him now through the elfrune he carries. Go then, Rennyn, and I promise you I shall be discrete about my source of information."

The Gold elf bowed and left the room. As soon as she was alone, Amlaruil touched the ring on her small finger and spoke her agent's name, followed by an arcane phrase.

A few moments passed before Nevarth answered. His voice sounded unusually distracted, even impatient. Amlaruil, her concern increasing by the moment, insisted that he meet her at once, at the small lodge near the Lake of Dreams that the Grand Mage and her agents often used for such meetings.

When the light from her ring faded, along with Nevarth's reluctant assurances, Amlaruil gathered up her skirts and ran out into the garden that had become the boys' impromptu battlefield. There was but time for a quick embrace and a brief admonition concerning future behavior before her duties took her, once again, from those she loved.

"Why must you go?"

Nevarth Ahmaquissar stopped tugging on his boots long enough to cast a wistful glance at the elf woman curled up among the silken pillows of their shared bed. Even newly awakened, she was stunning-the most beautiful Moon elf he had ever seen. Her masses of night-black hair were still tousled from his touch, and the skin of her lithe, naked body was the rich, pale color of new cream. As if sensing a momentary weakness, Araushnee pouted prettily, then patted the cushions in renewed invitation.

"What is this Amlaruil to you? You do not rush so when I call you," she said in a voice that reminded Nevarth simultaneously of feywine and dark velvet.

"Rush?" The elf grinned. "Never that! You are meant to be savored, my love."

"Yet you are leaving me."

"Only for a while," he said in soothing tones. "I have business on Evermeet, and then I will return. And when I do, I need never leave again."

"Pretty words!" scoffed Araushnee. "How many elf maidens have heard the famed minstrel Nevarth sing that song?"

The elf caught one of her hands and raised it to his lips. "My heart is yours alone," he said, speaking with a simple dignity that was very unlike his accustomed banter. "You know this to be true."

Araushnee lifted her other hand and smoothed a finger over the ring Nevarth wore on the small finger of his hand. "Then give me a token to keep until you return. This ring."

"I cannot." He hesitated, as if wondering how much to reveal. The words came out in a rush. "I would give you this or anything else, but I cannot. The ring is enspelled. No one can wear it but me-it cannot even be removed from my finger while I live, and when I die its magic perishes with me."

The elf maid lifted one ebony brow. "Powerful magic for a simple minstrel to carry."

"Yes," he said, and though she waited, he did not offer further explanation.

After a moment, Araushnee sighed and took a ring from her own hand. "If you will not give me a token, at least wear one of mine! Take this to Evermeet with you, and think of me when you look upon it."

Nevarth willingly held out his hand to her. He glanced down at the ring she slipped onto his middle finger, noting that the band shifted to fit his larger hand. The stone, a ruby, seemed to stare up at him like a malevolent crimson eye. Nevarth blinked and shook his head as if to dispel the odd image. When he looked again, the ring was merely a lovely red stone, as bright and vital and wonderfully fierce as the elf woman who shared his bed and held his heart in her white hands.

Araushnee rose up on her knees, entwining her arms around his neck and lifting her face for one last kiss. Willingly, eagerly, the elf made his farewells. When at last he stepped away, his smile said without words that he would not need her token in order to remember her long and well.

The elf woman watched Nevarth slip away into the silver path of magic, waited until the heat shadow he left behind had faded utterly away. Then she herself began to change. The rich ebony color of her hair leached away, washing down over her skin like spilled ink. She took on height and power in a sudden rush. Her body became more lush, and it gleamed in the lamplight like polished obsidian as she rose from the bed and glided over to a locked chest. From it she took a blood-red scrying bowl. As she knelt and gazed into it, her large blue eyes changed to mirror the malevolent crimson of the ring that Nevarth wore in her honor.

The being known in ages long past as Araushnee studied the bowl intently as the last vestiges of her mortal disguise slipped away. Even with the sharp eyes of a drow, the avatar form of the goddess Lloth, she did not see anything. Nor did she truly expect to. The magic guarding Evermeet was powerful and subtle, and she could not penetrate it even with such magic as she possessed. Nothing that she or her agents had attempted could pierce the shield that Corellon had woven about his children.

Well, Araushnee-or Lloth, as she was now known-had children of her own, and none wove webs more skillfully than she. Beneath the lands that Corellon's children trod, beneath the seas they sailed, her people live in a maze of tunnels so convoluted and intricate that even they themselves could not number all their secrets.

For many hundreds of years, the drow had sought a passage under the seas to Evermeet. Always they had fallen short, for the spells of misdirection protecting the island were powerful. More than once, the work of many years had been ruined in a sudden, terrible flood as the seas rushed in to destroy a too-hasty tunnel. Evermeet had so far remained beyond Lloth's grasping hand.

But Nevarth, dear besotted little elfling that he was, would finally change that. Like so many of Evermeet's elves, he had devoted himself to following the will of this upstart, this Amlaruil.

Lloth hated Evermeet's Grand Mage with a passion that rivalled her loathing for Corellon himself. And yet, she was almost grateful to the Moon elf female. It was Amlaruil, after all, who was opening windows between Evermeet and the rest of Aber-toril.

Windows, that if properly used, could look both ways.

It had been no small thing for Lloth to take on an avatar form so different from her nature, no small thing to play the part of a Moon elf seductress. But if her gambit succeeded, the prize would be worth all the aggravation.

And when Nevarth returned to claim his "beloved," Lloth would take the small, added pleasure of killing the elf, slowly and with exquisite attention to every possible nuance of pain.

A smile of near-contentment crossed the goddess's dark face. Even when compared to her ruling passions-a consuming hatred of elves, a love of power, and an implacable thirst for vengeance-Nevarth's devotion to his precious Amlaruil was a powerful thing. It would give Lloth great pleasure to let him know that not only had he been betrayed, but that he had in turn betrayed Evermeet.

The white whirl and rush of magical travel faded away to be replaced by a deep green haze. As the verdant mist sharpened, Nevarth Ahmaquissar felt the familiar magic of Evermeet's forest reach out to enfold him as if in welcome.

And yet, something did not seem quite right. The elf heard a faint sound, squeals and cries that suggested a wounded animal. He followed the sounds until he stood at the lip of a deep, broad pit. Within the pit, bleeding from a dozen wounds and nearly frantic with pain and terror, was an enormous wild boar.

Nevarth frowned. It was not elven custom to dig pits for hunting, for there was a possibility that an animal might be left wounded and helpless. As he studied the wounded boar, he realized that this was even worse. It appeared that the creature's wounds had been inflicted by elven spears and arrows. The boar had been deliberately hurt, and left here. But why?

The faint sound of elven boots alerted him, and suggested that an answer might be soon in coming. Nevarth darted into the deep foliage, well beyond sight, and crouched down to listen.

"Is the trap in readiness?" inquired a melodious elven voice, a cultured voice belonging to a young male.

Nevarth shifted, trying to catch sight of the speaker, but the thick curtain of leaves blocked his view.

"All is as we discussed," another male responded. "King Zaor will come, and alone. Of that I am certain. When he passes between the twin oaks-as he must, to reach the lodge-the ropes will raise the net beneath the boar. The creature will be free of the pit, and in its pain and madness will attack anything within reach. No single elf, not even Zaor Moonflower, is a match for a wounded boar!"

"It is a fearsome animal, and in fine mettle for a fight," the first elf said. "You have done well, Fenian."

"I hope the creature is too far gone in pain and rage to come under the king's spell," the one called Fenian said in a worried tone. "My father knew Zaor in Cormanthyr. He said that as a ranger, Zaor was without equal. Do you think he can tame that boar?"

The elf laughed. "I doubt it. And even if Zaor should manage to tame or kill the beast, he will not find a smooth path back to Leuthilspar. Other traps await him. And if need arises, well, I'd be more than happy to do the deed myself. My mother bid me not to kill the Moon elf myself- since there is always the possibility of discovery-but I would relish the opportunity for battle. Have I not pledged to see every one of the Gray elf pretenders slain?"

Nevarth could bear no more. He exploded from his hiding place, drawing his sword as he rushed toward the traitorous elves.

The pair of them looked up, startled, as the Moon elf came at them. With a stab of surprise, Nevarth realized that he knew one of them. Fenian Ni'Tessine had left Evermeet with his Gold elf family years ago for the forests of Cormanthyr. The other, younger Gold elf was also familiar, but Nevarth could not place him.

Both elves drew their swords. In unspoken agreement, they whirled away from the onrushing elf, forcing Nevarth to chose a single target. The Moon elf settled on Fenian and came at him, sword held high for a slashing downward stroke.

As Nevarth hoped, Fenian countered, raising his blade to parry. The Moon elf swung down hard, meeting Fenian's sword with enough force to send sparks darting off into the forest shadows. Before the Gold elven traitor could recover from the blow and disengage his blade, Nevarth snatched a long knife from his belt and stepped in under the joined swords.

The second elf's sword thrust in hard, slashing a deep gash across the back of Nevarth's knife hand and spoiling his killing stroke. The Moon elf threw his arm wide and somehow managed to land a wild backhand punch to the attacker's face. He spun away, then faced the pair of Gold elves head on. They stalked in like hunting cats, swords before them.

Nevarth did what he could, but his two blades could not match the swords of the Gold elven traitors. Again and again they broke through his guard, their swords leaving long and bloody trails across his arms, his chest, his face.

Still Nevarth fought on, not only for his life, but for that of the king. He had to survive, or Zaor would walk into a traitor's snare.

A female voice called his name, and suddenly Nevarth knew the fight was won. "That is Amlaruil-the Grand Mage," he informed the elves, speaking the words between the rapid exchange of blows. "You are as good as dead."

A look of deep hatred swept the face of the younger elf, but he danced back beyond the reach of Nevarth's sword. "Fenian, to the trees! Let the king's whore find her slain champion. You can bring her down with an arrow while she mourns him!"

Nevarth thought this a bit presumptuous, considering that he was far from dead. Yet even as the thought formed, the Gold elf whirled forward, his sword flashing up and around so rapidly that its path seemed to linger as a solid, silvery circle. Nevarth did not feel the cut, but dimly he felt the blood-soaked ground rush up to meet him. In some distant, fading part of his mind he saw the Gold elf sheath his blade and melt into the forest.

He tried to warn Amlaruil, tried to wave her away, tried to bid her no when she knelt beside him. But his limbs were so terribly cold, and they would no longer answer his will. No words could rise through his torn throat.

He thought, briefly, of his Araushnee, but oddly enough he could not bring to mind an image of her face. The light faded from before his eyes, until all that was left to him was an image of the glowing ruby on his hand, and a deep, terrible sense of failure. Amlaruil would die because of him.

Yes, she will die, and all of Corellon's children with her, exulted a familiar dark-velvet voice in his mind.

Nevarth heard Amlaruil's startled intake of breath, and realized that she, too, heard the silent voice. And then he was gone, spinning away from his torn body.

Amlaruil stared in disbelief at the dead elf, her mind whirling as she tried to sort through what had happened. He had been in fierce battle-she had heard the clash of swords from the lodge nearby. His enemies could not have gone far. And what of that terrible, malevolent voice, the sense of dark and evil magic that hung about him like a miasma?

Answers she must have, no matter how they were gotten. Amlaruil took a deep breath and prepared to do what was anathema to any elf: interfere with the afterlife of another. To delay the passage to Arvandor, for any reason, was a terrible thing. But Amlaruil was certain that this she must do.

She was no priestess, yet her connection to the Seldarine was deep and direct. Amlaruil sent her thoughts along the path to Arvandor, the same path that Nevarth was surely taking.

In the gray mist between the mortal world and the immortal, she felt the uncertain spirit of the Moon elf agent. Urgently she demanded to know what had happened. Nevarth told her without words, transferring his thoughts, his fears and failures. He gave her the name he knew-Fenien-and warned her there were other traitors. He yielded his regrets, his hopes, his dearest dreams. As the information surged into her mind, one thing stood out-a name from the ancient mythos of her people. A sense of dread and terror filled Amlaruil as she realized what Nevarth had brought with him to Evermeet. Yet as his spirit drifted away, his final and most urgent message was not of the goddess Araushnee, but of an immediate and mortal danger.

Acting on instinct, Amlaruil thrust Nevarth's body aside and rolled away. Two arrows, in rapid succession, plunged into the dead Moon elf.

The High Mage sprang to her feet, her blue eyes blazing with battle light and her hands outstretched. A small pulse of power burst from her fingertips and sizzled upward along the path that the arrow had taken. A cry of pain rang out through the forest, and the trees overhead rustled as the hidden foes drew away.

For a moment, Amlaruil was tempted to pursue. Yet another, more pressing matter weighed upon her. Zaor was in grave danger. Nevarth did not know the location or the nature of all the traps these traitors had laid for the king, so Amlaruil could do little to forestall them. She did not know where Zaor himself might be, nor did she have any means of reaching him through magic.

But there was one who did. Amlaruil steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. Never, not once, had she faced Zaor's consort. Yet Lydi'aleera wore an elfrune attuned to the king, a gift from the Towers fashioned by Amlaruil herself.

The High Mage stooped and gathered Nevarth's torn body in her arms. Eyes closed, she murmured the phrase that would summon the silver threads of magic, and carry them both to the very heart of the elven court.

A jangle of harpstrings and a shriek of mixed terror and disgust was Amlaruil's welcome to the Moonstone Palace. She opened her eyes and looked up into the white, startled face of Zaor's queen.

The spell Amlaruil cast was designed to bring her to the presence of the elfrune's wearer. She had come upon Queen Lydi'aleera at a time when the queen was alone and at leisure, amusing herself in a chamber filled with artworks and with wondrous musical instruments. The queen had sprung to her feet, upending both the padded bench on which she had been sitting and the golden harp before her. Her wide, staring eyes were fixed upon the slain elf.

With all the dignity she could muster, Amlaruil rose to face Zaor's consort. She was keenly aware of the flare of resentment in Lydi'aleera's eyes as she recognized her visitor, and the disdain on the elf woman's face as she took in Amlaruil's disheveled appearance and bloodstained robes.

"Forgive me for this intrusion, my lady," Amlaruil began, "but this is a matter of great urgency. You must contact the king at once."

Lydi'aleera's chin came up. "Who are you, to tell me what I must do?" she said with a mixture of hatred and hauteur that might have been chilling, had Amlaruil not had far greater concerns.

The mage snatched up the queen's small, white hand and turned it so the elfrune was apparent. "With this ring you can speak to Zaor. Do so now, or he will die! There are traitors and traps awaiting him-I know not exactly how many or where they might be! But he must turn back at once. At once!"

The urgency in Amlaruil's voice finally began to pierce the cloud of resentment that seemed to enshroud the queen. A small, sly smile lifted the corners of her lips.

"Very well, I will do as you suggest," the queen agreed, "but at a price."

Amlaruil reeled back, staring in disbelief. "You would put a price upon Zaor's life?" she demanded.

"Is not my life of value?" Lydi'aleera returned in a shrill, tight voice. "What of me? Am I utterly without worth, that I must sit by and see another woman's child made my husband's heir?"

"If you do not act now then Ilyrana will inherit sooner than any of us would like," the mage pointed out, taking another tact.

"Do not place that little witch upon my conscience," the queen hissed. "She is none of my doing, and I swear that she will not have the throne! She will not!"

"That is in the hands of the gods. Zaor's life, however, is in your hands. Name your price, and quickly," Amlaruil said, willing to do anything to calm the queen.

Lydi'aleera seemed to sense this. A faint, feral smile lit her thin face. "Very well. I want you to give me a potion that will make Zaor hold no image in his heart but mine, and another that will enable me-me! — to conceive an heir to Evermeet's throne!"