Elaine Cunningham - Evermeet - Island of Elves

"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.