Evermeet: Island of Elves

12

The harbor of Leuthilspar was silvered with the promise of dawn when Rolim Durothil and Ava Moonflower slipped away from the home they had shared for many years. They left behind them a large gathering of their kin-Gold and Silver elves alike-as well as a multitude of elves from all clans and races who had come to do honor to Evermeet's High Councilor and his consort, the Lady High Mage.

It was difficult for Rolim not to reflect upon what he was leaving behind. He and Ava had been blessed with an unusually large family. They had raised seventeen healthy children, who had in turn given them grandchildren to the third and fourth generation. These offspring had increased both the Durothil and the Moonflower clans. Some of their kin had gone on to form alliances with other ancient houses, as well as with newcomers-elves who had come to Evermeet by sea, or through the magical gates that linked the island to places hidden within the elven realms. He and Ava had been fortunate in their family, and in each other. They had lost kinfolk, that was true. Their daughter Anarzee was all but lost to the sea, though she served Evermeet still as a Sea elf, and a few of their grandchildren had perished in the sea battles that, though less common, were still a grim reality of life on the elven island. But the losses had been somewhat easier to bear for Rolim, in that he had such strength ever at his side.

Rolim looked fondly upon his wife of over seven centuries. Her gray eyes were serene, and the oddly dull, kitten-soft gray of her hair was streaked at last with elven silver.

But for that, there was little in her face or form to mark the passage of years. Ava appeared to be nearly as youthful as the day they married, and in his eyes she was far more beautiful.

Together the aged couple climbed the easy slope of the mountain that overlooked the river and the city beyond. For a long time they stood there, looking out over the place that had been their home.

On this, her last day upon Evermeet, Ava's heart was filled with a poignant mix of joy and sadness. She had loved this land and the People in it, but she was prepared to go. Her farewells had all been said in a celebration that had lasted three days. No one had come to the mountain to see them off. This time was theirs alone. She smiled at Rolim, and was surprised to see that furrows lined his brow. He looked deeply troubled-an odd thing, considering the peace that awaited them.

Ava tucked her arm into his. "You have served Evermeet with honor, my lord," she reminded him. "And Tammson Amarillis will be a fine High Councilor. You have trained him well."

The Gold elf sighed. "I have no fear of Tammson. It is our own brood, and their hot-blooded young friends, who give me pause."

It was not the first time Rolim had spoken of this concern to her. There were among their Gold elven descendants some who were not immune to the growing pride of the self proclaimed Ar-Tel'Quessir-the "high elves." It had been a matter of no little concern to Rolim. Gold elven sentiments concerning the innate superiority of their kind was growing to the point where the young elves threatened to mirror the dangerous attitudes of Aryvandaar's ruling elite. Among the youngest two or three generations there were many elves who were bitterly unhappy with the decision to return the Council of Elders to the control of a Moon elf. Tammson Amarillis, for all his talents, would not have an easy road ahead.

"The burden is no longer yours," Ava reminded him. "You have ceded your place to Tammson."

"I know. But even with Arvandor ahead, it is not an easy thing to leave Evermeet," he said ruefully.

"Even so, it is time."

It was time, and Rolim knew it well. He and Ava, bonded together by the soul-deep rapport that was rare even among the elves, had both felt the call of Arvandor for many years. So pressing were their duties, so firm was their sense of responsibility to the People, that they had delayed their departure for far too long. But the voice of Arvandor, sweet and compelling, had beckoned to them in every waking hour, and sung them into revery at night. The need for this final homecoming had become too strong for either to resist.

The elves closed their eyes and sank deep into meditation. As he did, Rolim's awareness began to sharpen. With ever-increasing acuity, he began to see and hear and feel in ways that far surpassed his mortal senses. As barriers slipped away, he noted with wonderment that the rapport he had shared with Ava was spreading, reaching out until it encompassed all of Evermeet. On he went, traveling out to touch the communities of People upon distant shores.

It was a communion beyond anything Rolim had ever known or imagined, and he was awed and humbled. In his heightened awareness, he was exquisitely aware of Ava's thoughts and emotions. She was more accustomed to such wonders than he, for she had spent a lifetime as a High Mage in the communion of her magical Circles. Yet she also took her place in the larger elven community with mingled joy and humility.

Rolim understood at last what the call to Arvandor was: a summons into the very heart of magic, into the Weave of Life itself. As the centuries of their mortal lives began to press upon them, elves could no more disregard this call than an elven toddler could push aside the driving desire to walk and form speech. One way or another, the call to deeper community had to be answered. It was no marvel to Rolim, now that he saw the way of it, that more and more often the High Magi were found only among the aged-elders who deferred the call of Arvandor for centuries to serve the People upon the mortal world, finding the needed communion in the Circles. In these days, young practitioners of High Magic-such as his great grandson Vhoori, were becoming exceedingly rare.

Vhoori. For a moment, Rolim's thoughts slipped back into the mortal world, tugged there by his concern for the brilliant and ambitious young mage.

Be at peace. The son of your son's son will bring great wonders to the People, and power such as few who walk as mortals on this world have imagined.

Oddly enough, Rolim was not particularly startled by the voice that sounded in his mind, soothing as the cadences of the sea. For he was reaching out now beyond the bounds of his mortal world, and entering communion with the Elders-those elves who had gone before him. Rolim sensed more of them now, but not as a cacophony of conflicting voices. It was rather like walking into a vast room, and being greeted with smiles of welcome by well-known friends. In this homecoming was a peace-a unity-that filled some unnamed corner of his soul, that place which gave birth to every yearning he had ever known.

Dimly, Rolim felt Ava take his hand in hers. There was little sensation of warmth or pressure, though, for their bodies were fading away into translucent, glowing shadows. Yet he knew that Ava's tiny hand was secure in his for they were both truly one with their People.

The morning sun broke through the canopy of leaves overhead, sending glowing shafts slanting down through the trees. The last few motes of silver and gold swirled together in a brief, giddy flurry, as if they danced to greet the light.

The Durothil mansion was one of the finest and most whimsical in all of Leuthilspar. At a distance, it resembled nothing so much as a flock of swans startled into sudden, graceful flight. One only had to look at the leaping towers to know that many powerful mages dwelt herein, for it took great power to raise a building of any kind from the soil.

The newest addition to the mansion was also one of the tallest and most imaginative. Two spiraling crystal towers wound around each other in a way that suggested, but did not precisely portray, a pair of entwined elven dancers. From the tower flowed gracefully curving buttresses, some of which rooted the structure to the sacred island, and others that reached seeking hands toward the starlight. The interior of the tower was less whimsical. It was divided into a number of small rooms, each devoted by its creator to a specific purpose.

In one of these rooms, the young Gold elf warrior Brindarry Nierde paced the floor restlessly as he dredged his mind for some way to talk sense into the young wizard who sat calmly before him-floating in midair, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. It was difficult for Brindarry to become too angry with his friend however, for Vhoori Durothil was the epitome of all that Brindarry held dear.

For one thing, the wizard was the quintessence of Gold elven beauty, with his pale tawny skin, night-black hair, and large, almond-shaped eyes the color of a summer meadow. His hands were long-fingered and graceful, and his sharp, finely molded features and triangular face called to mind the ancient, enchanted sculptures of the gods that their ancestors had brought from Aryvandaar. Vhoori Durothil was tall, like his illustrious grandfather Rolim, and as lithe as that famous warrior. But his was a different talent. He had come to magic at an early age, and had already proven to have exceptional potential. Already he was acting as the Center of a small circle, and he received from his peers a deference that was out of proportion to his age and accomplishments. Most elves assumed that Vhoori Durothil would in time become the most powerful High Mage on all of Evermeet, and treated him as such. Yet in Brindarry's opinion, the young mage was content to settle for far too little.

"It is an outrage," Brindarry burst out when his patience reached an end. "By Corellon's sacred blood! The Gray elves rule in Evermeet, and you simply drift along with events, as unconcerned as the clouds on a summer breeze."

The mage lifted one brow, and Brindarry flushed as he remembered that his friend's great-grandmother, the High Mage Ava Moonflower, had been a member of that maligned race.

"Gray elf" was more than a mildly derisive term for the People who were usually called Moon or Silver elves. A slight inflection of Elvish transformed the insult to the word for "dross," that which was common and low, the waste product left over when objects of precious metal-by implication, the "Gold" elves-were created. From the lips of another elf, "Gray" was a deadly insult.

But Vhoori seemed inclined to let it pass. He gracefully unfolded his limbs and stepped down to stand on the floor. "And what would you have me do, my impatient friend? Strike down the new High Councilor with a fireball, or perhaps lay him low with a single blow from a phantom sword?"

"It would be better than doing nothing at all," muttered Brindarry. "You certainly have the power to take action!"

"No, I do not. At least, not yet."

Those cryptic words were as close as Vhoori had ever come to giving voice to the ambitions they shared. Brindarry's eyes glinted with excitement as he regarded his friend.

"It is about time you thought of taking your due!" he exulted. "You have been playing the role of messenger boy for far too long!"

A wry smile lifted the corners of Vhoori's lips. "A messenger boy. Never have I heard it put quite that way," he said mildly. "I suppose I should point out that the sending of messages from one tower of High Magi to another is an important part of the Circles' work. It is true that this is my primary task, but considering my youth, the Elders think it best that I learn one thing very well before moving on."

Brindarry threw up his hands in exasperation. "How do you expect to rule in Evermeet if all you ever do is chat with the magi of Aryvandaar?"

"Ah, but there is power in information."

"Power that is shared by every other elf in your Circle," the warrior retorted.

"Even so," Vhoori said with a small, secretive smile. "But there will come a time when that is no longer true. Come-there is something I want you to see."

The mage led the way up a tightly spiraling stair to the very top of the tower. In the center of the small, dome-shaped room was an alabaster column, from which rose a scepterlike object. It was about the length of an elf's arm and made of some satiny metal that was neither gold nor silver in color, but some subtle shade for which even the precise esthetics of Elvish had no name. Intricate carvings seemed to lie beneath the surface, which appeared to be utterly smooth. It was a marvelous work of art and magic, justly crowned by a large, golden gem.

"The Accumulator," Vhoori said, stroking the smooth metal with a lover's hand. "With this, I can store power from each spell that I cast. In time, I will have stored so much power that I can act alone, and cast High Magic as a Circle of one."

Brindarry let out a victory whoop. "And then you need no longer answer to the dotards who rule and restrict the use of magic! Your power will be tremendous. It will be an easy matter to oust the Amarillis pretender," he concluded happily.

"Not so easy as you seem to think," Vhoori cautioned him. "Tradition, my friend, is a powerful thing. Tammson Amarillis is armed not only with his own merits, which are considerable, but also all those of his illustrious forebears. Even if every disgruntled Gold elf upon this island were to rally under my standard, we would have little hope of staging a successful coup-at least, not by traditional methods of warfare. No, it is time to find not only new powers, but new ways. And perhaps," he mused, "new allies."

The Nierde snorted. "And where will you find these allies?"

"By doing what I do best," Vhoori said dryly, "by being the very best 'messenger boy' that Evermeet has ever known."

The elven ship was dying. Captain Mariona Leafbower knew that even as she gave the order for a reciprocal attack.

She felt its death as a physical pain. Not in all her decades of travel among the stars had she known a ship that was its equal. In appearance it was rather like a titanic butterfly, with its two sets of sails that glimmered every shade of green known to her verdant homeworld. So vast were these winglike sails that the body of the ship-a sturdy structure with a keel length of over one hundred feet-was almost lost from sight among them. Mariona had inherited the graceful man-o-war from her uncle, who had grown and nurtured it himself, and she had carried on the Leafbower tradition of exploration, trade, and travel for the sheer joy of the journey. She knew this ship as well as any mounted warrior knew her pegasus, and she felt its dying agonies as keenly as if it were in fact a beloved steed.

The captain watched stoically as her crew cranked the ballistae into firing position and loaded the catapult with grape shot. Hers was a well-armed ship, with two mounted ballistae that shot enormous metal bolts with the accuracy of an elven archer's longbow, and a catapult capable of delivering a large load of scattershot missiles with devastating force. Even so, it would not be enough, and she knew it. The ship would die, that was certain, and the elven crew, as well. But at least they would take a few of the Q'nidar with them.

Mariona cursed under her breath as she watched the next approach of the Q'nidar. A flock of them flapped toward the ship in precise, single-line formation. The Q'nidar-hideous, batlike creatures with a fifteen-foot wingspan and long, barbed tails like those of a wyvern-were as black as the wildspace in which they hunted, but on their crystalline wings glittered every color within both the light and heat spectrums. Q'nidar were heat-eaters who traveled the vast spaces between the stars. They spoke by breathing intricate patterns of heat and energy that were detected and understood by others of their kind. Disaster usually occurred whenever they attempted to "speak" with star-traveling ships. Indeed, they were often drawn to such ships, attracted by the heat and light and activity.

These Q'nidar, however, were not merely curious. This was a hunting party, and they desperately needed to feed. Mariona could tell this from the unusually close-knit formation of the flying monsters. They flew nearly nose-to-tail, so that each Q'nidar could feed upon the heat emitted by the creature in front of it.

Their first attack on the ship had been unexpected-from a distance they unleashed a blast of breath so hot that it had ignited the protective bubble that surrounded the ship and kept the life-giving envelope of air and warmth in place. The off-duty helmsman, a wizard of considerable power, had drained his magic to put out the flames. He had succeeded-but not before their air supply had been dangerously heated and thinned.

It was still hot on the ship. Mariona's hair clung to her scalp in lank silver strands, and the pain in her blistered hands and face was intensified by her keen awareness of the ship's ills. The ship's crystal hull had been cracked by the sudden burst of heat, and the wings were seared and brittle. Her ship yet lived, but barely. It could not survive another hit. And the Q'nidar were closing in, eager to ignite the ship and feed upon the energy of the flames.

Mariona waited until the lead Q'nidar was within range, and then screamed out the order to fire. The first ballista thudded, sending a giant bolt streaking toward the creature. The weapon caught the Q'nidar squarely in the upper chest, sending it hurtling back into the ranks of its followers. A few of the Q'nidar at the far end of the formation managed to peel off in time, but for several moments most of the creatures struggled and thrashed in a tangle of bat wings and barbed tails.

At that moment, the elven fighters fired the catapult. A spray of small spiked metal balls, lengths of chain, and odds and ends of nails and scrap metal burst toward the tangle of Q'nidar. The shrieks of wounded and dying monsters reverberated through the ship's atmosphere like a chorus from the Abyss. Some of the less-wounded Q'nidar took off in rapid, desperate flight toward the nearest star. A few of the creatures, torn and silent, began to drift off into the blackness of wildspace. One of these floated directly toward the man-o-war.

"Hard astern!" Mariona shouted into the speaking tube that led from the deck down to the navigation room. The helmsman-the wizard whose magic combined with the power of the magical, thronelike helm to give power to the ship-acknowledged her order. Mariona noted with deep concern that his voice sounded thin and weary. Passilorris had been at the helm for much too long. His strength and his magic were nearly depleted.

The ship began to trace a leisurely arc toward the right as the helmsman urged the ailing vessel in an evasive maneuver. Not fast enough. The Q'nidar flopped down onto the ship's envelope, its black wings spread wide like a pall over the ship, its body bouncing slightly from the impact with the protective shield. So diminished was the air envelope that the creature hung low, bobbing gently between the ship's paired wings.

To Mariona's horror, the creature's eyes opened, focused, and then narrowed with malevolence as they glared directly into hers. The Q'nidar's chest slowly expanded as it prepared to expend its last breath in a killing blast.

"Fire!" she shrieked, pointing up toward the Q'nidar.

The ballista crew threw their weight against the massive weapon, swiveling it around and tilting it up to aim at the new threat. The bolt tore upward and plunged through the creature's heart.

A shimmering glow spread outward from the dead Q'nidar to engulf the protective bubble. The bubble's surface began to seethe and bulge like water just coming to a boil. A blast of hot air burst down through the opening, scalding the ballista crew before the magical shield could close in to repair the gap.

Mariona noted with grim relief that the ballista bolt had gone clear through the creature, thus allowing much of the hot air from its lungs to escape into wildspace. Had it not, the full force of the blast might have killed many more elves. Either way, however, they were better off than if the creature had "screamed." At such close range the force from such a heat weapon would have reduced the ship to ash.

But the threat did not die with that single Q'nidar. The creatures who had scattered and fled were regrouping. Mariona could see the distant flash of reflected starlight on their wings as they hurtled in for the final assault.

The final assault. Of that, there could be no doubt.

"Captain, we're receiving a communication!"

The navigator's voice echoed up through the speaking tube, shrill with excitement and hope reborn.

Mariona's heart quickened. To the best of their knowledge, there were no spelljamming ships in this section of wildspace, and no civilization on the nearest world capable of star travel. It would be wonderful to be proved wrong!

"On my way," she said, taking off at a run for the narrow steps that led down into the hold.

Her eye fell first upon the helmsman, a Silver elf of middle years. He was nearly gray with exhaustion, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the armrests of the helm as if to squeeze from it just a few more drops of power. Mariona rested a hand on his shoulder, briefly, and turned to the navigator.

Shi'larra was bent over a scrying crystal, her black eyes intense in her tattooed face. She glanced up at the captain. "The crystal has been pulsing, as if receiving a message. It is powerful magic-definitely elven-but subtly different from anything we know. According to the latest report from the Imperial Fleet, there are no elven ships in this area."

Mariona understood at once the implications of the navigator's words. From time to time, an elven civilization upon some outpost world found its own way to star-flight. The first contacts between these fledgling ships and the well-established elven navy that ruled wildspace was usually jarring in the extreme to the newcomers. There were strict protocols concerning how these encounters should be handled. Protocol, however, was a luxury that the desperate crew could not afford.

The elf woman lay her palm on the crystal, letting the powerful material absorb her personal magic. And powerful it undoubtedly was-the globe had been fashioned from the crystallized remains of a Q'nidar that had flung itself into a star. Such artifacts were rare and powerful, and she'd considered herself fortunate to have happened upon it in the debris that floated along a common trade route. Now the crystal offered a chance to stave off the utter destruction of ship and crew. Later, perhaps, she would ponder the irony of this.

"Captain Mariona Leafbower, of Green Monarch, a man-o-war of Elven Imperial Navy," she said crisply. "We are under attack and have sustained heavy damage. We are near the moon of Aber-toril. The navigator will give you our precise star coordinates. Can you help?"

There was a moment of silence. "You are flying? You are near Selune?" demanded a melodious, disembodied male voice.

"We are still star-borne, yes," Mariona said, puzzled by the incredulous note in the elf's voice. "Identify yourself and your ship."

"I am Vhoori Durothil, a High Mage of Evermeet," the unseen elf said. "And I am not on a ship at all, but on land. Sumbrar, to be precise, an outpost island just beyond Evermeet's bay of Leuthilspar."

Mariona and Shi'larra exchanged incredulous glances. Land-to-ship communication was incredibly difficult, and required magical technology of an extremely high level. They had not known that the elves of Aber-toril possessed such magic.

"Do you have spelljamming ships in this area?" she repeated.

"We have no such ships," Vhoori said. "But I can guide yours to a sheltered bay near the island."

Another blast of Q'nidar breath hit the dwindling shield, and another thrumming crack shuddered through the hull. Mariona winced. "Our ship is breaking apart. We don't have time to make landfall. Even if we did, we would be pursued by creatures that want the ship."

"I fear I cannot help you in such a battle. Can you leave the ship to your enemies? Have you lifeboats?"

Shi'larra nodded, her face grim. "It's that or nothing, captain."

Mariona glanced with concern at the failing mage in the helm. His head jerked upright, suddenly, as if he were trying to keep himself awake by force of will. "Passilorris can't bring us down. Ghilanna is dead, Llewellenar isn't feeling much better. We don't have another helmsman."

"What is a helmsman, please?" the unseen elf inquired.

The captain hissed in exasperation. Her ship was soaring toward oblivion, and this land-bound mage wanted a primer in spelljamming technology? "A wizard," she gritted out. "His spells power the helm-a magical chair of sorts-that powers the ship."

"Ah. Then perhaps I can help you. Get your crew to the lifeboat, and place your communication device upon this… helm."

"You cannot power a helm from a distance-not even the minor helm on the lifeboat! It has never been done," Mariona said.

"That does not mean it is not worth trying. And I can sense the thread of magic between my communication device and yours. I will bring you down in safety," the elf said confidently.

Since she had no better ideas, Mariona turned to the watchful navigator. "Give the order, get everyone aboard. I’ll follow with Passilorris."

Shi'larra seized the scrying globe and darted up the steps. The captain gave her a few minutes to gather the survivors and get them aboard the lifeboat, a small, open craft that looked rather like an oversized canoe. But it was light and it was fast; provided, that was, that a mage of sufficient power sat at the helm.

In moments Shi'larra's trademark signal-the high, shrieking cry of a hunting hawk-informed the captain that all was in readiness. Taking a deep breath, she dragged the nearly comatose mage from the helm and flung him over her shoulder.

Instantly the air in the helm room heated to nearly a furnace blast as the magical connection, however feeble, between mage and helm was broken. In a few moments, the air envelope would dissipate, as well. Mariona staggered up the stairs with her burden and made her way over to the rail where the boat was waiting.

It took all her power of will to keep her eyes upon the lifeboat rather than on her ship's flaming sails or the flock of Q'nidar that circled the burning ship, emitting triumphant shrieks and cackles as they drew sustenance from its funeral pyre.

At least the wretched creatures were distracted, Mariona thought grimly as she eased Passilorris off her shoulder and into the waiting hands of the survivors.

There were only ten elves aboard the lifeboat-all that remained after the last attack. But as Mariona took her place, she noted the awe on each face as they stared at the helm and the crystal scrying globe that sat in the center of the magical chair. The crystal glowed with intense inner power. It appeared that the land-bound mage could do what he claimed: The air that encircled the lifeboat was cool and fresh, which meant that power was indeed flowing to the helm.

"Looks as if we might make it, after all," Mariona muttered.

"Of that, Lady Captain, you may have no doubt." Their rescuer's voice sounded different, more vibrant-magnified, perhaps, by the power that flowed through the crystal. "By your leave, I will not speak again until we meet in person, except in necessity. The concentration needed to maintain the thread of magic is considerable."

"Of course," Mariona replied. "Let me know if there is anything we can do that might help."

There was a brief pause. "Actually, there is one thing," the unseen elf said wistfully. "Speak to me of the stars, and tell me what your eyes see on your journey to Evermeet."

Mariona cut the ropes that bound the lifeboat to the ship, then nodded to Cameron Starsong, a bard who had purchased passage aboard ship. As the small craft floated out into the darkness of wildspace, she settled back and listened as the elf strummed his lyre-which he had adamantly refused to leave behind-and declaimed in rhythmic, musical cadences a spontaneous ode to the wonders of starflight.

As the captain listened, it struck her that the life she took for granted would be the fabric of legend to an elf such as Vhoori Durothil. And the fact that she herself was headed for such a primitive world was disheartening in the extreme.

Mariona grimly took stock of the situation. Her ship was lost. At best, it would be many, many years before she could grow another. It was entirely possible that the surviving crew would spend the rest of their natural lives upon Aber-toril.

The elf woman sighed and turned her head to look back at her burning ship. Her eyes widened with surprise; Green Monarch was no more than a flicker of red light. She turned to Shi'larra, who was watching the rapidly diminishing light with narrowed eyes.

"How fast do you figure we're moving?" she demanded.

Shi'larra shrugged. "It's hard to say, without my instruments and charts. But I can tell you this much, we're traveling at least twice as fast as Monarch could at full power. Look down," she said suddenly, seizing the captain's arm and pointing to the rapidly approaching world. "There's Aber-toril, and already I can see the island. By the stars, never have I seen a place so green! And from this height!"

"You will be landing soon," Vhoori Durothil declared, in a voice made thin by exhaustion. "We will have boats ready to bring you in. Healers are preparing spells and herbs and will tend your wounded."

"Herbs and healers," Mariona muttered, rolling her eyes in Shi'larra's direction. "If we had to become land-bound, we've drawn a hell of a world for it!"

A fey smile lit Shi'larra's tattooed face. "Do not sneer until you have seen this world," she said softly. "It might be such that you will have no desire to leave."

"Oh yes. That will happen," the captain said caustically. "And as for you-your homeworld is almost unique in that it has no oceans. You're accustomed to endless forests, watered by a network of vast rivers. You're telling me you could be happy on that tiny island?"

The forest elf shrugged, and her eyes were fixed upon the rapidly approaching blur of green forest and sapphire seas. "All I can tell you is this: I have the oddest feeling that I'm going home," she murmured.

Before Mariona could respond to this odd pronouncement, the boat jerked suddenly as the untried mage who controlled it tried to slow the craft's descent. A second jolt quickly followed, sending the boat into a slow roll. The captain seized the crystal globe and held it firmly against the helm, shouting for the others to help her keep the magical device in place.

Again and again the little craft shuddered and jolted as Vhoori Durothil inexpertly slowed its descent into the sea. Even so, the boat hit the water with a force that shattered the wooden hull and hurled the elven crew into the water.

Mariona plunged down deep, her hands flailing about as she instinctively sought to find and save the helm. The water that swirled around her was dark with blood, and she knew from the fierce throbbing in her temples that she had taken a head wound, perhaps a serious one. All she could think of, however, was the need to find the helm. If she could not, she would never again travel the stars.

Suddenly she felt small, strong hands close on her wrists, and her frantic eyes looked up into the face of the strangest elf she had ever seen. A blue-haired, green-skinned female gave her a reassuring smile, and began to draw her up toward the surface. Mariona glanced at her rescuer's hands. They were striped in rippling patterns of blue and green, and there was delicate webbing between the unnaturally long fingers. Jaded as she was by her years of travel and her encounters with fantastic creatures from a dozen worlds, Mariona had never seen a creature that struck her as quite so bizarre as this Sea-elven creature.

Her last thought, before the darkness engulfed her, was that she'd picked a hell of a world to be stranded on.

The next thing Captain Mariona Leafbower knew was the soft, lilting sound of elven voices lifted in song. There was a healing power to the music that seemed to draw the pain from her head and the aching lethargy from her limbs.

Cautiously, Mariona opened her eyes. She was warm and dry, clad in a silken robe and tucked into a bed that, if the one right next to her was any indication, floated above the floor in a subtle, undulating motion.

"Captain Leafbower."

Mariona knew that voice. Painfully she turned her head and looked up into the smiling face of a young Gold elf. She was not in such a bad way that she didn't take note of the fact that he was probably the handsomest elf she had ever seen. Even so, there were more important matters on her mind.

"The helm…" she began.

"Do not concern yourself," Vhoori Durothil said. "The Sea elves have already found most of the pieces. In time, we will reconstruct it."

"It can't be done. You don't have the technology," she said in a voice dulled with despair.

"It seems to me that you said something very much like that before," the elf replied with a touch of wry humor. "And yet, here you are."

Mariona shifted her shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. "I'll grant that your magic is impressive. Maybe we can learn a thing or two from each other."

"That is my hope." Vhoori paused, and glanced at the elves who ringed her bedside. They discretely melted away. When he and Mariona were alone, he said, "You want to leave this world. You have said as much, repeatedly, in the days you lay in healing revery."

"Days?" she interjected in disbelief.

"Even so. Most of your crew are up and about. I regret to tell you that one elf perished in the landing."

"Passilorris," she said immediately, without a hint of doubt. "I was not certain that he would survive, regardless of the ease of landfall." She cast a fierce look at the mage, as if daring him to accuse the helmsman of some weakness. "He was a hero. Without his effort, all would have died!"

"He has been accorded a hero's passage," Vhoori assured her, "and a place of honor in the history of Evermeet. I regret the loss deeply. There is much that I would like to have learned from him about the magic of star travel."

Mariona sniffed. She and Passilorris had been lovers not too very long ago, so she supposed that she was excused from the need to sympathize with Vhoori Durothil over his loss of a potential teacher.

She swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat and swept the room with an inquiring glare. It was a large, perfectly circular room with walls that seemed to be made of a single stone. Large, arched windows looked out over a sparkling sea.

"Where the hell am I?" she demanded.

"This is the island known as Sumbrar. This house is mine, and the elves who tended you with spell-song are part of my Circle. The magic that contacted your ship, however, was entirely my own." He paused. "Perhaps it is best that this fact does not leave Sumbrar, at least for the time."

"Why?"

Vhoori drew a scepter from the folds of his robe and showed it to her. "For years now, I have been storing magical power in this device. I drained much of its power to bring you to Evermeet."

"So?"

The elf hesitated, his green eyes searching her face as if taking her measure. "My colleagues in magic do not know of this device. They have no idea that I can work such powerful magic alone. I would not have them learn of this before I am able to restore the Accumulator to its previous level."

Mariona's chuckle was utterly devoid of humor. "The gods forbid that the Elders should take away your toy. How old are you, by the way? Ninety? One hundred?"

"I have seen over two hundred springs," the elf said with dignity. "And I assure you, your silence is as much to your benefit as mine."

The captain nodded cautiously. She was not a fool, and knew that any elf who could command the sort of magic this one had wielded was a force with which to reckon. If Vhoori Durothil had a proposition for her, she would at least hear him out.

"Every elf on this island saw your craft fall from the sky. They will have questions. Tell them what you will, but do not mention my part in the matter. Not yet, at least."

The star-traveler's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you planning to do? You're not planning some sort of attack on the main island, are you? Because if you are, you can count me out now. I've never fought elves, nor will I."

"And you shall not."

A faint rustle at the open door captured Vhoori's attention. He hurriedly tucked the Accumulator out of sight and looked with ill-concealed impatience at the young female who clung to the door's lintel. "What is it, Ester?"

"There is a communication from Aryvandaar, Lord Durothil," she said. "You are needed in the Circle."

Vhoori frowned. "Ygrainne can act as Center in my stead. Bring word to me if the message is urgent."

The elven woman bowed and hurried from the room.

"Aryvandaar," Mariona said, a question in her voice.

"A great and ancient kingdom, many days' travel by sea from this island," he explained. "Many of our ancestors came from this land."

"Tell me," she requested. Her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, and at the moment she welcomed the soothing, melodious sound of the young elf's voice. She relaxed back against her pillows as Vhoori spun tales of wonder and warfare, and a land as beautiful and dangerous as any she had seen or imagined. As he spoke, she slid comfortably back toward revery, lulled into a state of contentment that was rare indeed for her restless spirit, and certain that the dreams that awaited her would be pleasant.

A sudden, terrible blast tore Mariona from her comfortable state. She sat bolt upright, stunned by a force that utterly dwarfed the shattering of Green Monarch's hull. Oddly enough, there was no sign of destruction. The room's luxurious furnishings were undisturbed, the birdsong outside the windows continued unbroken. There was no sound of battle, no scent of smoke or death. Only upon the face of Vhoori Durothil was the devastation written; the young mage's face was pale as parchment and twisted in nameless anguish.

"What the nine bloody hells was that?" Mariona demanded.

Before Vhoori could respond, an elven warrior bolted into the room, his flaxen hair flying about him in disarray and his black eyes wild. "Vhoori, the Circle is destroyed! Every elf who cast the High Magi is gone-gone! Utterly vanished. I would not have believed it had I not been in the spell chamber and seen it with my own eyes!"

"Did you hear the message from Aryvandaar?" Vhoori asked in a dry whisper.

"I did," the warrior said grimly. "It was a call for help from the tower at Sharlarion-they wanted us to send warriors and magi through the gates at once. Then came a blast that nearly drove me mad, and then-nothing. Quite literally nothing. I was the only elf left in the chamber. What does it mean?"

Vhoori abruptly turned away from the dazed and babbling elf and walked to the window. He was silent for a long moment, staring out over the water toward Evermeet with eyes that for once did not see the beauty of his homeland. A beauty that was all the more poignant now, for the added importance that this day's events had given the elven island.

"Brindarry, the day you have longed for may well be at hand. Evermeet will determine her own path in a way that she has never done before, and who is to say that this path will not lie along the road you yourself have envisioned? And your task, Captain Leafbower, is made all the easier. All those who saw your ship fall from the sky are dead, but for your crew, we three in this room and the sea people, who know only that your ship was destroyed by a powerful blast. It will be easy enough to fashion an explanation that will content them. Thus we can work here on Sumbrar in privacy, without fear that our task will be detected or our effects deterred. All things have changed this day," he concluded softly.

"These are words I have longed to hear," Brindarry said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Why then, can I not fathom their meaning?"

Vhoori spun to face his old friend and his new ally.

"Then I will speak plainly. Brindarry, our time is near at hand. Your destiny, Captain Leafbower, is intrinsically bound with my own. There is no other to whom you can turn. You see, the Crown Wars have taken their toll, after these many centuries of warfare. The ancient kingdom of Aryvandaar has fallen. Evermeet, for good or ill, now stands alone."