Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor.pdf - Ed Greenwood - Planetar81

Elminster in Myth Drannor

Ed Greenwood

Prologue

It was a time of mounting strife in the fair realm of Cormanthor, when the lords and ladies

of the oldest, proudest houses felt a threat to their glittering pride. A threat thrust forward by the

very throne above them; a threat from their most darkling youthful nightmares. The Stinking

Beast That Comes In The Night, the Hairy Lurker who waits his best chance to slay, despoil,

violate, and pillage. The monster whose grasp clutches at more realms with each passing day: the

terror known as Man.

Shalheira Talandren, High Elven Bard of Summerstar

from Silver Blades And Summer Nights:

An Informal But True History of Cormanthor

published in The Year of the Harp

"I did indeed promise the prince something in return for the crown," said the king, drawing himself

up to his full height and inhaling until his chest trembled. He adjusted the glittering circlet of gems and

golden spires that adorned his brows a trifle self-consciously, smiled at his own cleverness in providing

himself with this dramatic pause, and added, voice dropping to underline the nobility of his words, "I

promised I'd grant his greatest desire."

Those gathered to watch drew in awed breaths in a chorus that was mockingly loud. The fat

monarch paid them no heed, but turned away in a gaudy swirl of cloth of gold and struck a grandly

conquering pose, one foot planted on an obviously false dragonskull. The light of the purple-white

driftglobes that accompanied him gleamed back from plainly visible wire, where it coiled up through the

patchwork skull to hold the royal sword that had supposedly transfixed bone in a mighty, fatal blow.

Every inch the wise old ruler, the king looked out over vast distances for a moment, eyes flashing

gravely at things only he could see. Then, almost coyly, he looked back over his shoulder at the kneeling

servant.

"And what, pray tell," he purred, "does he most want? Hmmm?"

The steward flung himself full length onto the carpet, striking his head on the stone pave in the

process. He rolled his eyes and writhed briefly in pain-as the watchers tittered-ere he dared to lift his

gaze for the first time. "Sire," he said at last, in tones of wondering doom, "he wishes to die rich."

The king whirled about again and strode forward. The servant scrambled up on one knee and

cowered back from the purposeful monarch-only to freeze, dumbfounded, at the sight of a merry smile

upon the regal face.

The king bent to take his hand and raised him up from the carpet, slapping something that jingled

into the steward's palm as he did so.

The servant stared down. It was a purse bulging with coins. He looked at the king again, in

disbelief, and swallowed.

The royal smile broadened. "Die rich? And so he shall-put that into his hands and then slide your

sword through him. Several times is the current fashion, I believe."

The titters of the audience broke into hoots and roars of mirth, laughter that quickly turned to

applause as the costume spells cloaking the actors expired in the traditional puffs of red smoke, signaling

the end of the scene.

The watchers exploded into motion, swooping and darting away. Some of the older revelers

drifted off more sedately, but the young went racing through the night like furious fish chasing each other

to eat-or be eaten. They exploded through groups of languid gossipers and danced in the air, flashing

along the edge of the perfumed spell field. Only a few remained behind to watch the next coarse scene of

The Fitting End of the Human King Halthor; such parodies of the low and grasping ways of the

Hairy Ones were amusing at first, but very 'one note,' and above all elves of Cormanthor hated to be

bored-or at least, to admit their boredom.

Not that this wasn't a grand revel. The Ereladden had spared no expense in the weaving of the

field-spells. A constant array of conjured sounds, smells, and images swirled and wafted over the

revelers, and the power of the conjured field allowed everyone to fly, moving through the air to wherever

they gazed, and desired to be. Most of the revelers were floating aloft now, drifting down occasionally to

take in refreshments.

This night the usually bare garden walls bristled with carved unicorns, pegasi, dancing elven

maidens, and rearing stags this night. Every statuette touched by a reveler split apart and drifted open, to

reveal teardrop decanters of sparkling moonwine or any one of a dozen ruby-hued Erladden vintages.

Amid the spires of the decanters were the shorter spikes of crystal galauntra whose domes covered

figurines sculpted of choice cheese, roasted nuts, or sugarstars.

Amid the rainbow-hued lights drifting among the merry elves were vapors that would make any

true-blood light-hearted, restless, and full of life. Some abandoned, giggling Cormyth were dodging

through the air from cloud to cloud, their eyes gleaming too brightly to see the world around them. Half a

hundred giggles rolled amid the branches of the towering trees that rose over all, twinkling magestars

winking and slithering here and there among their leaves. As the moon rose to overwhelm such tiny

radiances, it shone down on a scene of wild and joyful celebration. Half of Cormanthor was dancing

tonight.

* * * * *

"Surprisingly, I still remembered the words that would bring me here."

The voice came out of the night without warning. Its welcoming tone dared him to recall earlier

days.

He'd been expecting it, and was even unsurprised to hear its low, melodious tones issuing from

the shadows in the deepest part of the bower, where the bed stood.

A bed he still found most restful, even with age beginning to creep into his bones. The Coronal of

all Cormanthor turned his head in the moonlight, looking away from the mirror-smooth waters that

surrounded this garden isle, and said with a smile that managed to be happier than his heart felt, "Be

welcome, Great Lady of the Starym."

There was silence for a moment in the shadows before the voice came again. "I was once more

than that," it said, almost wistful.

Eltargrim rose and held out his hand to where his truesight told him she stood. "Come to me, my

friend." He stretched out his other hand, almost beseechingly. "My Lyntra."

Shadows shifted, and Ildilyntra Starym came out into the moonlight, her eyes still the dark pools

of promise that he recalled so vividly in his dreams. Dreams that had visited him down all the long years

to this very night. Dreams built on memories that could still unsettle him... .

The Coronal's mouth was suddenly dry, and his tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Will you-?" he

mumbled, gesturing toward the Living Seat.

The Starym held themselves to be the eldest and most pure of the families of the One True

Realm-and were certainly the proudest. Their matriarch glided toward him, those dark eyes never leaving

his.

The Coronal did not have to look to know that the years had not yet touched her flawless white

skin, the figure so perfect that it still took his breath away. Her blue tresses were almost black, as always,

and Ildilyntra still wore them unbound, falling at her heels to the ground. She was barefoot, the spells of

her girdle keeping both hair and feet inches above the dirt of the ground. She wore the full, formal gown

of her house, the twin falling dragons of the Starym arms bold in glittering gems upon her stomach, their

sculpted wings cupping her breasts in a toothed surround of gold.

Her thighs, revealed through the waist-high slits in the gown as she came, were girt in the

black-and-gold spirals of a mantle of honor. The ends of the mantle drew together to support the

intricately carved dragontooth scabbard of her honor blade, bobbing like a small lamp, wrapped in the

deep, solemn red glow of its awakened power. The Ring of the Watchful Wyvern gleamed upon her

hand. This was not an informal visit.

The moon was right for a chat between old friends, but no matriarch comes aglow in all her

power for such things. Sadness grew in the Coronal. He knew what must lie ahead.

And so, of course, she surprised him. Ildilyntra came to a halt before him, as he'd known she

must. She drew apart her gown, hands on hips, to let him see the light of the full, gathered power of her

honor blade. This also he expected, and likewise the deep, shuddering intake of breath that followed.

Now the storm would come, the snarled words of sarcastic fire or cold, biting venom for which

she was famous throughout Cormanthor. The twisted words of harmful spells would lurk among them, to

be sure, and he'd hav-

In smooth silence, the matriarch of the Starym knelt before him. Her eyes never left his.

Eltargrim swallowed again, looking down at her knees, white tinged with the slightest shade of

blue, where they were sunk into the circle of moss at his feet. "Ildilyntra," he said softly. "Lady, I-"

Flecks of gold had always surfaced in her dark eyes when she was moved to strong emotion.

Gold glinted in them now.

"I am not one used to begging," that melodious voice came again, bringing back a flood of

memories in the Coronal, of other, more tender moonlit nights in this bower, "and yet I've come here to

beg you, exalted lord. Reconsider this Opening you speak of. Let no being who is not a trueblood of the

People walk in Cormanthor save by our leave. Let that leave be near-never given, that our People

endure!"

"Ildilyntra, rise. Please," Eltargrim said firmly, stepping back. "And give me some reasons why I

should embrace your plea." His mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. "You can't be unaware that I've

heard such words before."

The High Lady of the Starym remained on her knees, cloaked in her hair, and looked into his

eyes.

The Coronal smiled openly this time. "Yes, Lyntra, that still works on me. But give me reasons to

weigh and work with ... or speak of lighter things."

Anger snapped in those dark eyes for the first time. "Lighter things? Empty-headed revelry, like

those fools indulging themselves over at Erladden Towers?" She rose then, as swift as a coiling serpent,

and pulled open her gown. The blue-white sleekness of her bared body was as much a challenge as her

level gaze. Ildilyntra added coldly, "Or did you think I'd come for dalliance, lord? Unable to keep myself

one night longer from the charms of the ruler of us all, risen to such aged wisdom from the strong and

ardent youth I knew?"

Eltargrim let her words fall into silence, as hurled daggers that miss their target spin into empty air.

He ended it calmly. "This spitting fury is the High Lady of the Starym I have grown familiar with these

past centuries. I admire your taste in undergarments, but I had hoped that you'd set aside some of what

your junior kin call your 'cutting bluster' here; there are only the two of us on this isle. Let us speak

candidly, as bents two elder Cormyth. It saves so much . . . empty courtesy."

Ildilyntra's mouth tightened. "Very well," she said, planting her hands on her hips in a manner he

well remembered. "Hear me then, Lord Eltargrim: I, my senior kin, and many other families and folk of

Cormanthor besides-I can name the principals if you wish, Lord, but be assured they are neither few nor

easily discredited as youths or touch-headed-think that this notion of Opening the realm will doom us all,

if it is ever made reality."

She paused, eyes blazing into his, but the Coronal silently beckoned at her to give him more

words. She continued, "If you follow your mad dreams of amending the law of Cormanthor to all

non-elves into the realm, our long friendship must end."

"With the taking of my life?" he asked quietly.

Again silence fell, as Ildilyntra drew breath, opened her mouth, and then closed it. She strode

angrily away across the moon-drenched moss and flagstones before whirling around to face him once

more.

"All of House Starym," she said firmly, "must needs take up arms against a ruler so twisted in his

head and heart-so tainted in his elven bloodlines-as to preside over, nay, eagerly embrace the

destruction of the fair realm of Cormanthor."

Their gazes met in silence, but the Coronal seemed carved of patiently smiling marble. Ildilyntra

Starym drew in a deep breath and went on, her voice now as imperious as that of any ruling queen. "For

make no mistake, Lord: your Opening, if it befalls, will destroy this mightiest realm of the People."

She stalked impatiently across the garden, flinging her hands up at the trees, shrubs, and sculpted

banks of flowers. "Where we have dwelt, loved, and nurtured, the beauties of the forests we have tended

will know the brutal boots and dirty, careless touch of humans." The Starym matriarch turned and pointed

at the Coronal, almost spitting in her fury as she advanced upon him, adding a race with each step. "And

halflings." She came on, face blazing. "And gnomes." Her voice sank with anger, trembling into a harsh

whisper as she delivered the gasp of ultimate outrage: "Even . . . dwarves!"

The Coronal opened his mouth to speak, as she thrust her face forward almost to touch his, but

she whirled away again, snapping her fingers, and turned back immediately to confront him again, hair

swirling. "All we have striven for, all we have fought the beast-men and the orcs and the great wyrms to

keep, will be diluted-nay, polluted- and in the end swept away, our glory drowned out in the clamoring

ambitions, greater numbers, and cunning schemes of the hairy humans!"

That last word rose into a ringing shout that tore around their ears, setting the blue glass chimes in

the trees around the distant Heartpool singing in response.

As their faint clamor drifted past the Living Seat, Ildilyntra stood facing the Coronal in silence,

breast heaving with emotion, eyes blazing. Out of the night a sudden shaft of moonlight struck her

shoulders, setting her agleam with cold white light like a vengeful banner.

Eltargrim bowed his head for a moment, as if in respect to her passion, and took a slow step

toward her. "I once spoke similar words," he said, "and thought even darker things. Yet I have come to

see in our brethren races-the humans, in particular-the life, verve, and energy we lack. Heart and drive

we once had; we can only see now in the brief glimpses afforded by visions of days long gone sent by

our forebears. Even the proud House of Starym, if all of its tongues spoke bare truth, would be forced to

admit that we have lost something-something within ourselves, not merely lives, riches, and forest

domains lost to the spreading ambition of others."

The Coronal broke into restless pacing as Ildilyntra had done before him, his white robe swirling

as he turned to her in the moonlight and said almost pleadingly, "This may be a way to win back what we

have lost. A way where for so long there has been nothing but posturing, denial, and slow decline. I

believe true glory can be ours once again, not merely the proud, gilded shell of assumed greatness we

cling to now.

More than that: the dream of peace between men and elves and dwarves can at last be upon us!

Maeral's dream, fulfilled at last!"

The lady with blue-black hair and darker blazing eyes moved from her stillness like a goaded

beast, striding past him as a forest cat encircles a foe it remains wary of... for a little while yet. Her voice,

when it came, was no longer melodious, but instead cut like a lustily waved razor.

"Like all who fall into the grip of elder years, Eltargrim," she snarled, "you begin to long for the

world as you want it to be, and not as it is. Maeral's dream is just that-a dream! Only fools could think it

might become real, in this savage Faerun we see around us. The humans rise in magecraft-brutal,

grasping, realm-burning magecraft-with each passing year! And you would invite these-these snakes into

our very bosoms, within our armor . .. into our homes!"

Sadness made the Coronal's eyes a little bleak as he looked at what she'd become, revealed now

in her fury-far and very far from the gentle elven maid he'd once stroked and comforted, in the shy tears

of her youth.

He stepped into the path of her raging stride and asked gently, "And is it not better to invite them

in, win friendship and through it some influence to guide, than it would be to fight them, fall, and have

them stalk into our homes as smashing, trampling conquerors, striding amid the streaming blood of all our

people? Where is the glory in that? What is it you are striving to keep so sacred, if all our people perish?

Twisted legends in the minds of the humans and our half-kin? Of a strange, decadent people with pointed

ears and upturned noses, whose blinding pride was their fatal folly?"

Ildilyntra had been forced to halt, or her angry progress would have carried her into him. She

stood listening to his rain of questions almost nose to nose, white-clenched fists at her sides.

"Will you be the one to let these-these beast -races into our secret places and the very seat of

our power?" she asked now, her voice suddenly harsh. "To be remembered with hatred by what few of

our People will survive your folly, as the traitor who led the citizens he was pledged to serve... our very

race... into ruin?"

Eltargrim shook his head. "I have no choice; I can see only the Opening as a way in which our

People may have a future. All other roads I've looked down, and even taken this realm a little way along,

lead- and speedily, in the seasons just ahead-to red war. War that can only lead to death and defeat for

fair Cormanthor, as all the races but the dwarves and gnomes outnumber us twenty to one and more.

Humans and orcs over-muster us by thousands to one. If pride leads us to war, it leads us also to the

grave-and that is a choice I've no right to make, on behalf of our children, whose lives I'll be crushing

before they can fend, and choose, for themselves."

Ildilyntra spat, "That fear-ladling argument can be made from now until forever grows old.

There'll always be babes too young to choose their own ways!"

She moved again, stepping around him, turning her head to always face him as she went, and

added almost casually, "There is an old song that says there is no reasoning with a Coronal of firm

purpose . . . and I see the truth of it now. There is nothing I can say that will convince you."

There was something old and very tired in Eltargrim's face as his eyes met hers. "I fear not,

Ildilyntra ... loved and honored Ildilyntra," he said. "A Coronal must do what is right, whate'er the cost."

She gave an exasperated hiss, as he spread his hands a little and told her, "That is what it means

to be Coronal-not the pomp and the regalia and the bowing."

Ildilyntra walked away from him across the moss, to where a thrusting shoulder of stone barred

her way and gave a home to lavender creepers. She folded her arms with savage grace, and looked

south out over the placid water. It was a smooth sheet of white now in the moonlight. The silence she left

in her wake grew deep and deafening.

The Coronal let his hands fall and watched her, waiting patiently. In this realm of warring prides

and dark, never-forgotten memories, much of a Coronal's work consisted of waiting patiently. Younger

elves never realized that.

The High Lady of the Starym looked out into the night for what seemed a very long time, her

arms trembling slightly. Her voice was as high and as soft as a sudden breeze when she spoke next.

"Then I know what I must do."

Eltargrim raised his hand to let his power lash out and trammel her freedom-the gravest insult one

could give to the head of an elven House.

Yet he was too late. Sudden fire blossomed in the night, a line of sparks where his power met

hers and wrestled just long enough to let her turn. Her honor blade was in her hand as her eyes met his.

"Oh, that I once loved you," she hissed. "For the Starym! For Cormanthor!"

Moongleam flashed once along the keen edge of her blade as she buried it hilt-deep in her breast,

and with her other hand thrust its dragon tooth scabbard into the bright fountaining blood there. The

carved fang seemed to flicker for a moment, and then, slowly, melted away into the river of gore. More

blood was pouring from her than that curvaceous body should have been able to hold.

"Eltar ..." she gasped then, almost beseechingly, her eyes growing dark as she swayed. The

Coronal took a swift step forward and raised his hands, the glow of healing magic blazing along his

fingers-but at the sight of it she snatched forth the glistening blade and drove it hard into her throat.

He was running now, across the little space that remained between them, as she choked,

stumbled forward-and swept her gore-soaked arm up once more to drive the blade of her honor deep

Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor.pdf

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