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  EVERMEET

  Island of Elves

  ©1998 TSR, Inc.

  ©2000 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Ciruelo Cabral

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6200-6

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  v3.1

  Dedication

  The Realms has a thousand historians, and this book owes an enormous debt to three of the finest. Much that is good in this story grew from their suggestions and research; any flaws that remain are entirely my own. In gratitude for their expertise and their enthusiasm, I’d like to dedicate this book to Steven Schend, herald and historian; to Eric Boyd, the Realms’s answer to Thomas Aquinas; and to Moonsong, Sage of Arabel, wherever he may be.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prelude: The Edge of Twilight

  Book One: The Fabric of Legend

  1: The Godswars

  2: Master of the Hunt

  3: Dark Tapestry

  4: The Trees of Arvandor

  5: End of Battle, Declaration of War

  Prelude: The Coming of Darkness

  Book Two: Silver and Gold

  6: Weaving the Web

  7: Brother Against Brother

  8: From the Abyss

  9: The Sundering

  10: Returning Home

  Prelude: The Fall of Twilight

  Book Three: Constancy and Change

  11: Inviolate

  12: The Starwing Alliance

  13: Tides of Fury

  14: The Flight of the Dragons

  Prelude: Shadows Deeper

  Book Four: The Royal Family

  15: The Moonblades

  16: The King Sword

  17: Heirs of Destiny

  18: For the Good of the People

  19: Towers of the Sun and Moon

  20: Windows on the World

  21: The Sword of Zaor

  Prelude: Nightfall

  Book Five: Queen of Evermeet

  22: Amlaruil of Evermeet

  23: Rapport

  24: The Elite

  25: Malar’s Vengeance

  Epilogue: Dawn

  About the Author

  27th day of Eleint, 1367 DR

  To the esteemed scholar, Athol of Candlekeep, does Danilo Thann, his erstwhile and unworthy student, send greetings.

  My old friend, it is with enormous satisfaction that I take up quill and parchment to begin an endeavor that may, in some small measure, begin to justify the care and effort you once lavished upon my education. I thank you for that, and for your offer of assistance in my new effort.

  It is my desire to gather some of the tales told by sages and bards, warriors and rulers, and fashion them into something resembling a history of the elven island of Evermeet. Without your aid and introduction, I would not presume to approach the mighty, the famous—and the well-armed. Those who do not know me would surely hesitate to contribute to so ambitious an undertaking. As for those who do know me … well, suffice it to say the damage is done. Perhaps the mantel of your fine reputation will enable me to reap credibility where none was sown.

  What, you may ask, possesses me to set my hand to so daunting a task as this, a history of Evermeet? My reasons are threefold.

  I believe that the lessons taught by elven history have not yet been learned. Though the wondrous island of Evermeet seems inviolate, is it truly so much different from Illefarn, Keltormir, or Cormanthyr? Once, these great centers of elven culture seemed eternal; now they are merely legend. What then may we expect for Evermeet and the elves who have made the island their home and their hope? I pray that my views hold more pessimism than prophecy; nevertheless, change occurs, often when we are least ready for it. In my short career as a bard, I have observed that facts usually serve only to obscure the truth. Truth, when it can be found at all, is more likely to be heard when it is presented in stories and song.

  You are also aware of my long fascination with all things elven. You may recall that you enjoyed a brief respite from my lamentable magical pranks whenever your lessons focused upon the fey folk. Shortly after you retired from your post as my tutor, having expressed your desire to regain your peace of mind and regrow your eyebrows and beard—for which loss I heartily apologize (upon my word, that ink was supposed to glow in the dark, not explode when exposed to candlelight!) I took upon myself the study of Elvish. In the years since, I have achieved a level of fluency that will allow me to read any histories, lorebooks, and letters you can send me. Rest assured I will treat them with far greater care than I showed my mother the Lady Cassandra’s lorebooks, and that I shall return them to Candlekeep without the bawdy asides and small charcoal sketches that filled the margins of those books—save of course for those that dealt with elven legend and lore. Even then, I recognized and respected the unique magic of such tales.

  My final reason is the most deeply personal. Through the blessings of the gods (which gods, precisely, remains to be ascertained) I am soon to wed an elf woman of royal blood—and mixed race. Her greatest sorrow, and therefore mine, is that she has been denied her elven heritage. While this history cannot restore her birthright to her, it is the only such gift within my power to give. My lady has little use for anything my wealth can purchase. The things she values cannot be found in the bazaars of Waterdeep, and are, alas, in scant supply elsewhere: honor, courage, tradition. As I undertake this work, I keep ever before me an image of this true daughter of Evermeet, whom I love dearly for her elven ways—and despite them.

  A contradiction, you think? So would have I, before I came to know Arilyn. My lady is capable of inspiring admiration and exasperation in great and equal measure. I suspect that the story of her ancestors may hold true to this pattern. Yet I will follow the story of Evermeet’s elves wheresoever it may lead, as faithfully as lies within my powers. This I swear to you by the Mystery I hold most dear—that the fairest and bravest of these wondrous, frustrating beings could love a man such as I.

  I remain respectfully yours in the service of truth, story and song,

  Danilo Thann

  Prelude: The Edge of Twilight

  (1371 DR)

  igh above the waters of the Trackless Sea, a silver dragon wheeled, soared, and danced upon the crisp thin air. For many centuries had the dragon lived, and never had she found a pleasure to rival the sheer joy of flight—the rush of the wind an
d the delightful tingle of ice crystals against her scales.

  As she soared over a narrow gap in the cloud cover, she noted that she was not the only creature to take flight on this glorious autumn day. Far below, a flock of white-winged seabirds skimmed over the waves.

  Seabirds?

  The dragon pulled up, startled. There was no land for many, many miles—how could a flock of such size sustain itself so far out to sea? Curious, she tucked in her wings and went into a stooping dive. Down she hurtled, plunging through the mist and damp of the clouds. Out of habit, the dragon stretched wide her wings just before she broke through the cloud bank, pulling out of the dive and then circling around in the thin mist to slow her momentum. Staying hidden among the clouds was most likely an unnecessary precaution, for even the sharpest-eyed seabird would see the dragon, if he saw her at all, as nothing more than a silver speck. But the dragon was a Guardian; it was her task to see and not be seen.

  The dragon peered down at the strange flock. At this height she could see that it comprised not birds after all, but ships. A vast fleet of ships, sailing due west—sailing for Evermeet.

  “I could attack,” the dragon whispered longingly, yet she knew she could not. There were far too many ships, for one thing, and her duty in such matters was clear. She wheeled toward the west, her glittering wings thumping as she climbed back up to the cold, dry air above the clouds. There she could fly more swiftly.

  And fly she must, with all the speed that the magic of dragonflight lent her. The dragon had been Evermeet’s guardian for nearly as many years as Queen Amlaruil had been its ruler. During her centuries-long vigil the dragon had seen hundreds of ships attempt the passage to Evermeet. Most lay rotting on the ocean floor. But this flock, this fleet, was an invasion force of devastating strength. The dragon could see no other explanation for so many ships—not even during the height of the elven Retreat did so many ships band together at once. If even a tenth of them managed to get past the island’s safeguards, they might do considerable damage to Evermeet’s defenders.

  The dragon sped toward the elven island, her mind reaching out desperately across the miles to search for the mind of her elven partner, so that she might warn him of the approaching danger.

  Silence. Darkness.

  There was a moment’s disbelief—after all, Shonassir Durothil was a formidable warrior, one of the finest Windriders in all Evermeet. Many times had the dragon contacted him, even from so far a distance. If the elf did not answer, it was because he could not. Shonassir was dead; of that, the dragon was grimly certain. She did not wish to contemplate the severity of battle, the manner of foe that could send a warrior such as Shonassir Durothil to Arvandor before his time of consent.

  The dragon muttered the words of a spell that would speed her flight to the elven homeland. In moments, the cloud mass below her sped by in a white blur. But fast as she was, the dragon had reason to fear that she might already be too late.

  When Shonassir Durothil died, he had been on Evermeet itself.

  High above the deck of Rightful Place, unmindful of the dragon sentinel passing swiftly overhead, a young sailor clung to the rail of the crow’s nest and peered out over the endless waves.

  Kaymid No-Beard, his mates called him, for his visage was indeed as smooth as a newly laid egg. But young though he was, this was his third voyage, and he was proud of his place on this vessel, the flagship of a mighty invasion force. Even better, as watchman Kaymid might be the first to catch a glimpse of Evermeet’s fabled defenses.

  This thought sent a tingle of excitement racing down the young sailor’s spine. He had no thought of fear, for how could they fail? Kaymid knew a secret, a wonderful and dangerous secret that in his mind spelled certain victory. This adventure would climax in a glorious victory, and then he would claim his share of treasure and elven wenches. The battles that lay ahead would only whet his appetite for both.

  “Soon,” Kaymid murmured eagerly, remembering the tavern-told legends. According to those sailors who had survived such a voyage—which is to say, those who had turned back—the elven defenses began in earnest a fortnight’s sail west of Nimbral. This time was nearly up.

  Kaymid intently scanned the sea, his eyes seizing every detail: the long, flickering shadow that the ship’s mast cast over the waves behind them, the leap and splash of a pair of dolphins at play, the sailor asleep on the deck below, his bald head pillowed on a coil of rope. Kaymid would see everything, miss nothing.

  As if to mock his proud thoughts, an island leaped into view, appearing as suddenly as if it had been pulled from a wizard’s bag. Beyond he saw a second island, and then another—there was a vast archipelago of them! And between the islands, jagged rocks thrust out of the sea like the tombstones of a thousand unwary ships.

  “Danger! Danger, straight ahead!” Kaymid shouted down in a voice made shrill by sudden fear. “Land, rocky shoals!”

  On the deck below, the captain waved acknowledgment and untied his spyglass from his belt, although more for protocol’s sake than from any faith in young Kaymid’s enthusiasms. Captain Blethis was the son of a sailor and grandson of a pirate. The sea sang in his blood; it had been his home for nearly all of his forty-odd years. He could read the patterns in the stars and the winds as well as any man alive. No, by his reckoning Rightful Place was hard out to sea and days from any shore. He’d stake his share of elven treasure on that.

  Blethis raised the glass. He recoiled, blinked, then squinted intently at the image it revealed. Sure enough, there was land ahead, a barrier even more dangerous than young Kaymid’s warning suggested. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun set the islands aflame: The patches of sand were the color of pale roses, the rocks a deadly garden of sunset reds and oranges.

  “A coral reef so far north?” Blethis muttered in disbelief. Spinning on his heel, he roared to his crew to turn hard to the north.

  “Belay those orders.”

  The words were softly spoken, yet some fey magic carried them to every corner of the ship. The deckhands hesitated at their work, torn between the danger ahead—now visible to them all—and their awe of the speaker.

  A lithe, slender figure emerged from the hold, draped in a cloak against the chill winds and the sting of the sea spray. “Sail on,” he said calmly, addressing the helmsman who stood frozen at the wheel. “There is no need to alter our course.”

  “No need?” Blethis echoed incredulously. “That coral can shear through ships faster than dwarven axes could slice cheese!”

  “You yourself have pointed out the unlikelihood of such a coral reef in these cold waters,” the cloaked figure replied. “It is merely an illusion.”

  The captain raised his glass for another look at the formidable barrier. “Looks solid enough. You’re certain it’s not?”

  “Entirely certain. We sail on. Have the bosun relay the message to the other ships.”

  Captain Blethis balked, then shrugged and did as he was told. In doing so he risked all that he had—his position, his share of the plunder, his very life—but he suspected his imperious passenger had as much at stake and more.

  Although captain of the vessel, Blethis was little more than a hired hand. The ship he commanded belonged to the elf—in fact, as far as Blethis could figure, all the ships in the fleet belonged to him.

  The elf. It still amazed Blethis that an elf would lead an invasion force against his own kin. Although, come to think of it, men were quick enough to fight amongst themselves. It shouldn’t surprise him to learn that elves weren’t much different, but it did. There were several elves on this ship, for that matter, and more on several of the others. As far as Blethis could tell, they were all dead set upon overthrowing the ruling queen and taking over the island themselves. Which was fine with Blethis, since these particular elves were willing to share the spoils of war—and the glory of conquest—with their human allies.

  Provided, of course, that any of them survived the voyage.

  The captain strod
e to the bow and watched in silence as the ship closed in on the coral reef. Some of the crew, trusting the evidence of their own eyes over the assurances of the mysterious elf lord, leaped over the rail to take their chances swimming ashore.

  “Leave them,” the elf commanded. “They will understand their folly soon enough, and the other ships will pick them up as they pass through.”

  Blethis nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the swiftly approaching rocks. Instinctively he braced himself for the first grating jolt of contact with the unseen coral shelf, but it did not come. Scarcely breathing, he stood tense and watchful as the helmsman steered the ship in a weaving course between the blood-colored rocks, touching none. Touching nothing. It was a feat of seamanship that Blethis would not have believed possible had he not witnessed it.

  It was also effort wasted. In moments the first of the islands lay directly before them, a hopelessly rocky shore above which loomed a thick tangle of foliage. They were close enough to smell the thick, earthy scent of the loamy soil and the deep, complex perfume of growing things. A large insect flew soundlessly by. Blethis instinctively swatted and missed.

  Suddenly a weird, undulating hoot pierced the tense silence, rolling out of the dense forest toward them in chilling waves. The call was quickly echoed by other creatures—large creatures, judging from the sound—whose trumpeting roars seemed thick with hungry anticipation.

  Blethis shuddered. He’d heard such cries before, long ago, when his ship sailed too near the shores of Chult’s jungles. If the elf was wrong, if the ship went aground on this brutal coastline, all of them were deader than day-old mackerel.

  To the captain’s astonishment and utter relief the ship passed through the cove and the rocks, flowing right into the “forest” beyond as easily as it might slice through mist. The colors of the coral formations and the lush green foliage played over the ship and the stunned sailors as they glided through the illusion.

  Blethis held up one hand and regarded the shifting patterns upon it. He remembered a long-ago moment when as a child he had stood in the base of a rainbow and watched the colors splash over his bare feet. This barrier reef, for all its formidable appearance, was no more substantial than that rainbow.