Elaine Cunningham - Evermeet - Island of Elves

Maura, who was keenly observing the princess's face, nodded with satisfaction. "Do what you must-I will stand guard as long as I am able."

The elven priestess reached out for the magical threads that bound her to Arvandor. A familiar presence flooded her mind in silent rebuke even as a tendril of warmth and strength stole into her benumbed thoughts. She sank deep into the mystic prayer, opening herself fully to Angharradh, her goddess.

The mystery that Ilyrana had contemplated her whole life suddenly seemed to have been laid out plainly before her. Angharradh, the goddess that was three and yet one, was not so very different from the other gods of the Seldarine. Nor was she so different from the unique magic that sustained Evermeet. Many, and yet one. Perhaps the magi were not the only elves who could summon a Circle's combined magical strength.

Ilyrana closed her eyes and sank deeper still into the meditative prayer, until the power of the goddess seemed to flow through her like air, binding her in silver threads to the web. She reached out, seeking the power of the other priest and priestesses. One by one, she reached out to touch the startled minds of desperately praying clerics of Hanali Celanil, Aerdrie, Sehanine Moonbow-all of the goddesses whose essence was mirrored in Angharradh. They were many, yet they became one, even as the goddess herself had been given birth.

As an awareness of Ilyrana's spell spread through the embattled grove, the priests and priestess of all the gods of the Seldarine followed the princess, lending the force of their prayers and their magic to this not-quite-mortal child of Angharradh.

Ilyrana gathered their combined power, instinctively forming it into a new and terrible goddess form. In response to the collective prayer, a warrior maiden clad in gleaming plate armor rose from the soil of Evermeet. Tall as an ancient oak, she held a spear the size of a ship's mast.

The warrior stood her ground as the elf-eater thundered toward her, and thrust her spear's point deep into the monster's mouth. With all her strength she pushed the blunt end of the spear down, levering it toward the ground. Then she dug in her heels, and held on.

The impaling spear thrust deep, abruptly stopping the monster's headlong rush. Although the mighty shaft bent like an arched bow, although the wood shrieked and groaned and crackled from the strain, the warrior did not release her hold. Then, suddenly, she threw herself backward, releasing the spear.

As the lowered end of the spear sprang straight and high, the creature was thrust violently in the opposite direction. It flipped, landing on its rounded carapace and rocking like an up-ended turtle. Its three massive legs churned the air and its tentacles flailed wildly, but it could not right itself.

One of the tentacles found and seized the warrior, wrapping around her arm and pulling her close. The magical elf drew a knife and severed the limb, then ripped the clinging length from her arm. Circles of blood welled up on her arm where the tentacle's suction cups had found purchase, but the warrior paid no attention to these wounds.

The warrior maiden took a gossamer net from her belt and whirled it briefly. It flew over the creature, entangling it in a silvery web of magic. She turned to the tower, nodding toward the watchful elven princess who had given her form and substance. And then she was gone, and the elf-eater with her.

Gone, too, were many of the clerics, for their spirits had been bound up in the casting. Of all the elves who had raised the warrior goddess from their combined power, only Ilyrana lingered.

But her spirit, too, had flown. As Maura knelt beside the too-still princess, she noted a pattern of bloody circles upon the flesh of one white arm.

The woman ran to the window and called for help. The surviving clerics hurried to her aid, but nothing any of the survivors could do had any effect on Ilyrana's deathless slumber.

At last they somberly prepared to take the princess to Leuthilspar. If anyone would understand this unfathomable blending of the mortal elf with the divine, it would be Queen Amlaruil herself.

Maura went with them. As she tended the princess, she noted with dread and fascination that other wounds appeared on the elfwoman's silent form. It seemed that somewhere, in some battle that only the gods could witness, Ilyrana was fighting still.

— 9000 DR

The claiming of the king-making swords was set for twilight on the eve of the summer solstice-a time of powerful magic. From all over Aber-toril, elven nobles gathered in the forests of Cormanthyr for the ceremony. With them came High Magi, three hundred of them, one for each of the swords.

When the sun began to sink below its zenith, they all gathered in a broad valley. Ethlando awaited them, standing in a vast circle of swords lying with the hilts turned outward. The magi took their places, as well, standing within the parameters of the swords, near to but not touching the points of the gleaming blades.

Anticipation hung heavy in the air-even the birds seemed hushed as they listened to Ethlando's magically enhanced voice describe at last the full role of the magic swords.

"Many years ago, I was given a spell by Corellon Larethian himself," Ethlando began, his voice resonant and sure despite his great age, and flavored with the quaint accent of lost Aryvandaar. "This spell have I taught to these magi. Its magic will give to the swords two things that no other magic weapon possesses: the ability to determine what powers it will possess, and the judgment to chose who is worthy to wield these powers."

The ancient mage cast a slow, searching glance over the gathered elves. On each face, he saw written confidence, expectation. No one among the assemblage appeared to think himself less than worthy of this honor. Ethlando hoped that not too many would die before they learned otherwise.

"Each clan has chosen and sent representatives. Many who will claim the swords today come from ancient lines, and they can point with pride to many illustrious ancestors. This is a fine thing, but it is not the measure that the swords will use."

A few brows furrowed in puzzlement or consternation as the elves contemplated these words. How else would a royal house be chosen, but for the honor of lineage?

Ethlando took this as a good sign. At least they were thinking.

"Today, the swords will select their first wielders. In time, they will chose a worthy clan with a proven succession. You see, these are hereditary blades, meant to be passed down to worthy descendants for as long as the line lasts. Claiming a sword will become more difficult as time goes on, for the sword will choose only those who have the potential strength and the character to wield all of the powers of the sword. With each passing generation, the task will grow more difficult."

"How will we know if the sword has chosen us?"

Ethlando turned to face the young elf who asked the question. "If you are still alive, you have been deemed worthy."

The seer let this statement hang for several moments in the silence. "Yes, the swords-the moonblades-will take the life of any who are not worthy. This may seem harsh, but consider how great the power of these weapons will be when ten generations have past! Safeguards must be taken, lest their magic fall into evil hands and evil use. Once a sword is claimed, only the sword's rightful wielder can unsheathe it and live."